Et Vici Mundum: The First Competition
by TheAmazingJAJ
Summary: Germany has won WWII, led by the mighty Otto Schnee. For now, they rejoice, but Otto has sinister plans, plans to shock Europe. With this, Otto will truly conquer Europe. He will take their children and pit them against one another, letting only one survive. Otto will conquer their worlds.
1. The End of the Beginning

Otto Schnee looks out of his window to see the Third Reich lined up throughout the square, a perpetual salute being held by each soldier as far as the eye can see. He smiles slightly, his bald head gleaming in the sunrise. Europe is his.

It was simple to kill Hitler. When he had risen in the ranks of the Nazi Party, winning over politicians with his charming manner, Hitler had grown suspicious of his power and invited him to dinner, planning on assassinating Otto with his bodyguards. Hitler had no idea until the last minute that Otto had paid off the bodyguards weeks before - then offered them twice as much to kill Hitler.

He had called off the attacking of the Jews; Otto had no use for silly mythology that proved that Aryans were stronger and purer than any other race. He would easily prove that on the fields of battle. Minorities were somewhat left alone, and the rest waited with bated breath to see what would happen in Germany's quest for lebensraum.

And prove themselves Germany did. They stormed throughout Europe in the Blitzkrieg - the lightning war - finishing what Hitler had planned to start. With the help of a happily paid off General Franco, France and Switzerland had fallen easily, and the rest of those pathetic neutral countries fell with them. By this time, Britain had started to get antsy, but Otto had commanded his armies to invade them easily. There had been heavy losses, including his own nephew, but London raised up the swastika in only six months. Britain had been conquered. The King was deported to his old colony, Canada, along with the rest of the royal family. They executed Churchill publicly; the old man was too dangerous to still live. Then, broadcast live on television for the world to see with their own eyes, Buckingham Palace, Westminster Abbey and the Tower of London had been burnt to the ground. The British Monarchy had been erased from its native soil.

Russia, worried about the power that Germany held over Europe, attacked instantly, but they hadn't counted in the fact that two brilliant German scientists, Kurt Diebner and Werner Heisenberg, had worked together with Danish physicists to create the ultimate weapon: an atomic bomb. Russia was bombed to the ground, and Diebner and Heisenberg had gotten their pick of the remaining lands of this once-great country.

The Americas had opted to stay out of the battle and Otto, delighted of their neutrality, advised Japan to stay away from Pearl Harbour and any American territories. Japan took the advice, and the Empire of the Rising Sun took over most of the Pacific. America and its allies let it happen, realizing the power Germany held with their atomic bombs. World War Two, the worst battle in all of history, was over.

Otto took to his feet, walking out onto the balcony. His cunning wife watched from behind, holding their only child in her arms. He felt the look of approval on his back and gave a grateful glance back towards her. Without Hana, Otto wouldn't have learned how to debate so well. He would still be a simple politician trying to argue against his betters, always failing to prove his points. Hana was his savior. In return, Otto had handed her the world; or at least as much of it as she had wanted. The only thing left to do was fulfill his own agenda.

Otto reveals himself to the public, prompting a massive 'Sieg Heil!' that echoes throughout the square. Otto waits for the excited crowd to finish their praise, then starts. "My dear people, we have won this War!"

The crowd roars again, and the cameras flash upon Otto, bathing the balcony with light. Otto resists the urge to squint and smiles, waving to the crowd. They have no idea of his plans. But when he revealed his plans for this new 'Wettbewerb', they will rejoice. They will bathe in the blood of the defeated. And Otto will be Fuhrer of the world.

 **Hey guys! Welcome to my newest SYOT, and I am very, very excited to do this one! If you can't tell, this is an alternate history SYOT, with Germany winning WWII. Wait, wait, don't lynch me, the Germans aren't as bad this time around. The Americas are left alone, Japan is its own empire, and all of Europe and parts of Asia and Africa are under the power of Germany. No Holocaust, no Pearl Harbour, no Hiroshima. It's just this. There will be thirteen 'districts', comprised of these:**

 **The British Isles**

 **France**

 **Switzerland**

 **Russia (Only Western Russia, Eastern is taken by Japan, and everything else, including Moscow, is bombed. The rest was left for Germany)**

 **Baltacia (Sweden, Finland, Norway, Denmark, Lithuania)**

 **Northern Europe (Belgium, Luxembourg, Austria, Romania)**

 **Poland**

 **Slavia (Greece, Yugoslavia, Albania, so on)**

 **Iberia (Spain and Portugal)**

 **Turkey**

 **Italy**

 **Afrikka (Countries in Northern Africa)**

 **Those are the ones taken over. You guys will submit to those regions, one boy and one girl respectively for each. Keep in mind these things, first.**

 _Keep names that fit with the region. There aren't really any Courtneys in Poland in this time period. And don't you dare give me an Ash. I will legitimately scream, I tell you!_

 _This is the 1940s. LGBT rights aren't recognized very much, and there is still racism, although partially muted. Jews aren't persecuted, but have a bit of a bias against them._

 _Iberia and Italy are allowed to 'train' their tributes, due to their compliance in the war and their help of the Germans._

 _This is the first Games. Britain is still fuming, Switzerland is fuming, and NO ONE IS A PERFECT VOLUNTEER! They all barely know what's happening!_

 _There won't be reservations unless I'm convinced otherwise, and I'll wait a bit before accepting your tribute, but there is a limit of two or three tributes, and that's stretching it a little. (If you show up, I'm looking at you Elim XD But your tributes are still great!)_

 _I'll try to update somewhat frequently, but Distorted is a bit more important to me right now. Don't worry, this will still get love!_

 _Finally, this is just for fun, and for me to explore history a bit more! Enjoy!_

 **A special thanks to The Wandering Phantom for inspiring me to make this! Their story 'To Cry Peccavi' the only reason I had this idea, and I hope they accept this little story!**

 **Without further ado, here is the form.**

 _Name:_

 _Age (12-18, same as always):_

 _Gender:_

 _Religion (If none,_ reply _Atheist, but most will have some form of religion):_

 _Region (See the list above):_

 _Personality:_

 _Backstory:_

 _Appearance (Faceclaims are welcomed):_

 _Thoughts on the War:_

 _Preferred Weapons (Make it believable, guys. Something that they'd like to use, and something that they might have used before. Axes and knives come to mind easily):_

 _Strengths:_

 _Weaknesses:_

 _Are They Open to Alliances? (Remember Iberia and Italy's advantages, guys):_

 _Other:_

 **That's it! No review tributes are accepted, and I'm looking forward to see your tributes! Hopefully, you'll find it in your heart to submit to this little story :D Until next time, TheAmazingJAJ**


	2. A Change of State

**Sunday, April 19th, 1942, Two Hours After Schnee's Victory Speech**

Hana Schnee walked down the hallways at a surprising rate for a normal woman in high heels. Then again, Hana was no normal woman. She kept walking, flashing an evil eye to a soldier who dared to step out of line as she walked by the room he was guarding. He blushed fiercely and stepped back into position, letting Hana get past him. She pulled open the doors to her husband's private quarters, causing Otto to yelp as she stomped in, throwing another evil gaze at Otto. "What is it, dear? Is Maxie ill?"

"Maxie is with his nanny," Hana said, walking over to the map of Europe. She grabbed tacks and stabbed them into every country in Europe, then turned to her husband. "And why on Earth are you having _every single country_ in Europe and Northern Africa send in two tributes, _darling?_ Can you explain that to me, _dearest_?"

Otto stammered, stacking his papers and putting them neatly on the desk. It did nothing to console his wife. "We-well, I thought that since we've taken them all over, they should all suf-suffer… "

"But what is the point of having Luxemburg, who would be lucky to find a boy and a girl who are in good enough condition to send into the Games, and Andorra, who might not even have any, for all I know, send tributes into the Games against the likes of Great Britain?" Hana exclaimed, ripping the map of Europe apart. Otto jumped, then took the pieces of the map, crumpling them up in his hands. He looked dangerously at Hana, flashing that smile he gave every adversary he met - every future victim he met. "That, dear, was an heirloom from my dear Mama. Why would you wreck it, _darling?_ "

Hana pulled out another map of Europe from her purse, sticking it onto the wall. "I already took that one and made copies. Your precious heirloom is back with your mother at Schnee Hall. Now, we need to have _some_ order to these… games of yours. Or is competition a better word?"

"I failed geography in school, always was a useless subject." Otto stared stubbornly at Hana, daring her to do something about his incompetence. Hana grinned, pulling out yet another map out of her purse. This time it was divided into 12 sections, all neatly coloured in. "Maxie helped me to colour in France and Spain. It made for a wonderful bonding exercise for today. He is truly an intelligent child, just like his mother."

"And we will have all of these regions send in one boy and girl? But that's only 24!" Otto said, frowning down at the paper. Hana laughed, pointing at the clock. "24 hours is enough for a day, so it should be enough for you. Each region will send in one boy and girl between the ages of 12-18, picked by lottery, and then we will have them battle it out to the death in an… arena of sorts, like a sports team."

"You're suggesting that we make this… a sport?"

"Wonderful idea, Otto! The people will love this. It shouldn't just be executions, it should be entertainment! But what will be the arena? If this is going to be a sport, we simply cannot put them into the field that you suggested to fight it out. We need something… better."

Otto frowned, tapping a pen to his temple as he sat back down. "But darling, who will make this arena? Heisenberg and Diebner are too busy in Russia, and Mussolini doesn't have a creative bone in his body. Perhaps Franco..."

"Me, darling!" Hana cried, throwing her hands up in the air. "I will make the game. I will create it! I will make it perfect, Otto. Give me this chance, and it will be the most wondrous thing Germany has ever seen."

"A hersteller von spielen..." Otto nodded slowly, handing her the finance papers. "This is our budget. Go wild, darling. Create this arena to suit your wildest dreams."

Hana laughed, kissing Otto on the cheek. "I will. I will be the hersteller von spielen, the maker of this game. But we need to make sure that all the people are watching. It's not much of a punishment if no one can see it."

"The television seems to be popular these days. We let the world watch the Tower of London burn with it. They didn't seem to complain."

"Not everyone has a television, darling. We'd need to get our workers on them immediately."

"Are you suggesting that we give them all ferhenser, televisions?"

Hana giggled, kissing Otto again on the cheek. "Yes, darling! I'll contact Frau Mayer immediately. She'll persuade her husband to focus on making these ferhenser for the people. Our world will all have televisions by the end of the month."

Hana disappeared, muttering to herself something about how the children would need to be properly dressed. Otto sighed, rubbing his temples. Pleasing his love was harder than conquering Europe. He couldn't use brute force on Hana.

A butler appeared at the door, holding a telephone. "General Franco for you, sir."

Otto sighed again and picked it up, listening to Franco's rant. "Schnee, why are you making us give tributes? We helped you in la guerra, for Espana's sake! I cannot abide this madness, lowering us to the likes of _Poles_ and _Slavs_. Are you mad, Schnee? Are you wrong in the head? Spain will not abide this!"

Otto smiled. "Don't worry, General. And remember, you are in charge of the region of _Iberia_ , not Spain. Spain is as dead as the British Monarchy, Franco. Now, how about I give your tributes a better chance at victory? Does that sound better, Franco?"

The General paused, pondering the option. After a minute, he replied, causing Otto to grin again. "What's the advantage?"

 **Here is the next chapter! I'm very happy with this one, and I hope it paints some more background. How was Hana? I think she's a wonderful lady ;) So, to clarify, every tribute has one slip in the reaping bowl, volunteers are allowed, and Iberia and Italy have an optional training school, which they operate for the next two months until the reapings. Next up is our mentors, and I'm very pleased to announce that we'll have real-life figures as mentors! Expect spies, generals, and a woman that you might have heard of, Antonina Zabinski! I'm extremely excited for this story, and love how invested you guys are in it so far! I can't wait to see more of your amazing tributes! Because of the great amount of feedback I've gotten, I'm limiting the number of tributes to two. I'd love to have as many people as possible in this story!**

 **I've planned my plan for this story, and I think it's pretty good. First of all, we'll have another prologue to be introduced to our real, historical mentors, then perhaps another one to fully fill our rosters. Don't expect those that soon though XD Then, I plan to have six reaping chapters, to make it easier on myself. About 10 chapters will be devoted to the arrival of the tributes to Berlin and getting ready for the arena, and then we'll have the arena for however long it will be, then a couple finishing chapters. Sound good?**

 **Thanks so much for showing interest in this story! Keep submitting, and until next time, TheAmazingJAJ**


	3. Mentors I: We Rise Up

**Alan Brooke, 59, British Isles Mentor**

I sat in shackles, waiting for the blasted Nazis to just get it over with and shoot me. I had already been found guilty of high treason against the Third Reich three weeks ago. It felt as if the Nazis were prolonging the matter.

A stubby servant walked to my door, carrying a tray of food. "For you, Field Marshal."

She handed me a plate of steaming biscuits and jam, slathered with butter. I nodded at her, impressed. Rations had been hard pressed during the war. I was surprised that they had found enough butter to cover one biscuit, let alone all of them. "Thank you, Miss. Long live King George IV."

"Long live King George IV!" the woman replied, smiling at me kindly and walking off. The bloody Nazis hadn't bothered to see if they employed patriots or not, and my high standing in the British Royal Army helped to uncover more than a few in this prison.

I reached for the plate of biscuits, taking care that the chains I was in didn't scratch the fine china. The cook would make sure that there would be hell to pay, even if this was possibly my last meal.

Someone walked up to the door just as I took a bite of one of the biscuits, opening the door with the large keys that they had for the prison cells. I stood up but refused to salute, standing at attention for the person. They demanded attention, but they would not receive my respect. The Nazis would not see me salute them or their leader.

I watched the man walk in, the swastika emblazoned on an armband he wore. I stared daggers at the foul object, wishing that I could spit at it. Only good manners forbade me to do so. I would not spit on a man even if he was my captive. I was better than that.

The man smiled at me, starting to speak in broken English. "Alan, hello. I am Friedrich von Deisner, the appointed recruiter for the new... _wettbewerb_ involving your country. I am here to offer you job."

I stared at the man, trying to figure out if he was serious. Was he offering myself, one of the most powerful men in Britain, a job in this blasted competition the servants had been crying about?

Friedrich kept on speaking, grinning madly through his beard. "You will mentor the tributes chosen for Britain and help them to win the wettbewerb. Do you understand?"

I nodded slowly. If I could help my country, it would be worth working for the Nazis. I could bring a soldier of Britain back home. "If you'll pardon my french, I'll do it, you gormless bastards. Sound about right?"

Friedrich grinned, nodding his head happily. "I do not understand the language of France, if you please. Are you able to teach me?"

 **Peggy Taylor, 22, French Mentor**

" _Je suis une patriote_!" I yelled into the cell, letting the words ring through the prison. A rat skittered through my cell, looked at me curiously, and left. My words had no effect on him. " _Non_ , that sounds way too bland for this. My last words have to be something more interesting. Hmm, how about… You can break my body, but not my spirit! _Mon Dieu_ , I'm so cheesy this hurts. How about… "

I looked up disinterestedly as yet another one of the Nazi leaders entered my cell, carrying with him a stack of papers. At least they hadn't resorted to the whip again. My back was still stinging from the last 'session'.

The man looked at me sternly as he walked in, setting down a clean towel onto my grungy bed before he sat down gingerly. I laughed. "If you think it's so bad, why don't you replace it?"

The man shook his head, wrinkling his nose as a foul odor came into the room. I smiled. "Enjoy the smell of the lavatories? Just next door!"

The man scowled, opening up the folder of papers and starting to read. "Peggy Taylor, 22 years of age. When World War II started, she posed as a prostitute, luring loyal German soldiers into giving her valuable information. At the age of 21, she shot a German officer dead in a dinner date. She escaped instantly, hiding in the town for weeks until found out by loyal townspeople." Actually, that was incorrect. After England had fallen, I had attempted to escape to Spain, but had been caught by a simple farmer who couldn't bear to see a 'poor damsel' walking along the road by herself. The Nazi Army, walking past the farmer, noticed me instantly, and placed me in this dump of a prison.

"So you're going to recount to me my life's history? That's not going to make me feel any better, imbecile." I smiled insolently at the man and sat back in the bed, leaning comfortably against the wall. The German officer wrinkled his nose once more and turned to the next page. "The honourable Fuhrer Schnee bids you to become a mentor for your region of France in his new competition. You will mentor two children chosen from this country and help them attempt to win the competition. Do you accept, Mademoiselle?"

I laughed. It actually didn't sound too bad, but I wasn't going to let this idiot know that. Not until I was convinced. "And how are you going to make me do this, Jerry? What if I don't accept?"

The German officer flipped to the next page. "The previous two choices for the France mentor were shot dead when they refused. Do you accept, Mademoiselle?"

 **Carmelo Borg Pisani, 27, Italian Mentor**

I calmly sipped my cioccolata calda, smiling at the painting that I had finished. It was a picture of the landscape around my mansion, showing the hills as the sun peered over them. It was beautiful, and it was mine. The mansion was mine because I had spied for the Italian forces on Malta at the end of the war, finding out necessary information to help the Italian forces take back the soul of Italy. Now, I was able to live in my home again, enjoying art. It was peaceful.

One of the butlers walked into the living room, holding a ringing telephone. "For you, Mr. Pisani."

I nodded and took it from him, putting down my cioccolata calda. The hot chocolate trembled slightly as it was put down on the table, and I picked up the telephone. "Ciao?"

"Ciao, Carmelo!" Benito Mussolini answered. I smiled and listened, knowing that something important must be happening. _Il Duce_ wouldn't phone me personally unless he had something important to say to me. "Listen, Carmelo, I have a _piccolo_ favour to ask you. Fuhrer Schnee would like you to mentor the two tributes for the _concorrenza_ he is making for the Reich. Do you accept?"

I paused, weighing the pros and cons. If I did, I would instantly receive more social status. If I didn't however, I would be able to stay and paint the landscape, happy by myself.

Screw painting. I'd probably be arrested anyway for treason against Fuhrer Schnee if I didn't accept. Best to enjoy the most of myself while watching _adolescenti_ kill each other.

 **Antonina Zabinski, 34, Polish Mentor**

I watched the birds fly throughout the garden, landing on one of the trees. I smiled softly as it sang without a care in the world, completely free. Nothing could harm it.

 _Bang!_

I jumped in my cell as one of the birds fell to the ground, a red pool of blood surrounding its black wings. A Nazi soldier walked over to it, smiling as he crushed the delicate little body into the ground. I breathed deeply, resisting the effort to scream at the man. That was the last straw for my husband. The Nazi soldier had beaten him savagely when he had dared to protest about their inhumane treatment of the birds.

 _And then they killed my_ _mąż, my only love…_

I sat back down and continued to hum, waiting for whatever would happen to me next. I hadn't learned much German, but the soldiers guarding me had made it pretty clear that I would be dealt with soon. I wouldn't give them the satisfaction of tears. I would be strong, just like the beautiful animals I had taken care of. They had let the political refugees into the adjacent cages where we had hidden them in the war without a whimper. I would be like them. But if the Germans came to ask me something, I wasn't sure what I would do. But I would live. I would live for Jan. He deserved that. He wouldn't want me to grieve. And I didn't either.

 **Aristides de Sousa Mendes, 57, Iberian Mentor**

"Aristides de Sousa Mendes. You have betrayed the region of Iberia beyond belief, helping political refugees escape to America, away from their rightful imprisonment in the Third Reich. Even worse, you spread propaganda about the Third Reich, claiming that it was, in your own word, "a misguided, opportunistic, savage reign of terror. Is this not correct, _Senho_ r Mendes?"

I nodded to the judge, squirming my hands in the uncomfortable shackles in which they were entrapped. " _Sim, eu fiz isso_. Would you not do the same, your honour, if you knew that our God of the most high bade you to so? Would you look at these _refugiados_ , whom you slander so horribly in court, if you knew that in your heart of hearts that they were human, just the same as yourself, your honour? Would you turn them away from your home, your honour? Could you live with yourself if you did so, your honour?"

The judge banged his gavel onto the bench, letting the sound ring out throughout the courtroom. "Let the defendant be seated. I have reached a decision, helped by the honourable Fuhrer Schnee. Instead of receiving the worst punishment our legal system allows, a life sentence in prison, you will serve your time as a mentor for the two Iberian tributes in the competition Fuhrer Schnee has organized, helping them to survive for the good of the Iberian people. Guards, escort Senhor Mendes to his train. He must catch it if he will reach Berlin in time for the inauguration."

I frowned slightly, trying to decipher my chosen fate. I was going to mentor two children, trying to help them gain victory over 22 others. Was it right? Was it just? Was it fair?

Perhaps not, but it was God's plan. He had chosen me to help these two children, and I would do the best I could. I would help them to survive.

 **Bernard Montgomery, 55, Afrikaan Mentor**

I stood at attention with my troops, waiting calmly for Rommel to walk up and execute us all. We, the army of Britain, had been defeated on the sands of Africa. The war was now over. Everything that we had lived for, everything that we had worked for, was over. The sun had finally set on the British Empire.

But we would not accept defeat, even in death. I had urged my men to face their execution with honour. We would not let those Nazi bellends see us go off with tears in our eyes. We would die soldiers of the king. We would die proudly.

I nodded proudly at the trembling men, saluting them all. "You did well. I'm proud of you all."

The men saluted back, smiling through the worry that they had. I nodded grimly and turned back to the executioners. I looked at the corpses of my dogs lying close to the soldiers, flies already starting to buzz around the wounds. Rommel and Schnee had no chance against the wrath of the Nazis. They had died in minutes.

Field Marshal Rommel walked up to the executioners, nodding at them to start. I nodded back. I had utter respect for Rommel. Even though he had defeated my army, he had done so without the use of bombs, His cunning had won him the day, and I couldn't deny that. Rommel had won the day. He looked one last time at my men and gave the order. " _Feuer_!"

The guns started to go off, and I watched the men collapse to the side of me. One by one, they all fell down, crumpling onto the ground like puppets who had their strings cut off. I took a deep breath, waiting for the bullets to hit me. Maybe mother was right. Maybe there was a life after death. And if so, I would see my Betty again. And we would be happy.

"Stop! Stop! Stop!" I turned around, puzzled by the stopping of gunfire. A little black boy had run up to Rommel and passed him a note, causing Rommel to stop the firing. The remainder of my army relaxed. They had a few more minutes before their deaths.

"Bernard Montgomery!" I looked up, watching Rommel. What on Earth would he want? "You have been chosen to be a mentor for the region of Africa. You will report to Berlin within the week, preparing to mentor your two tributes to victory."

I gasped, looking in disbelief at Rommel. Was I mentoring savages? I was mentoring these… African savages who barely knew how to live in civilization? Why?

I was moved quickly out of the way by several German soldiers, placing me next to Rommel. I frowned, and the soldiers started to fire once more. My men fell down onto the ground, their bodies riddled with bullet holes. Strangely, I wished to be one of them. Better to be an honourable corpse than alive and cowardly.

 **William Stephenson, 45, Canadian Mentor**

I nodded along with the calming elevator music, waiting for the elevator to reach the fourth floor. I didn't know why I was being summoned to Parliament. I was about to find out.

I stepped out of the elevator as the doors opened, walking into the room. A man looked up at me, smiling through his glasses. "Ah, William! It's good to have you here."

I nodded, looking at the men seated in the room. They fidgeted nervously, waiting for me to say something. "What is it, gentlemen? What's my job?"

The man in the yellow suit nodded, taking a folder from his suit and laying it down on the table. "Prime Minister King has agreed, along with the United States, to both send one female and male 'tribute' to compete in the competition that Fuhrer Schnee is holding, in a display of goodwill and peace. We have elected you, Mr. Stephenson, to be our country's mentor."

"Me? Why me? I'm likely wanted for espionage around Europe!" I sputtered. It was one of the stupidest things that the government could do. No one in Europe would trust me if I claimed to be a mentor.

"That's why you are not going as a mentor. _Bill Stephens_ , a respected politician in our government, has been elected as Canada's mentor. _William Stephenson_ will be remaining in Canada."

I nodded, grinning slightly. I understood them perfectly. "Should I dye my hair? I don't want to be wearing a wig the whole time I'm there."

 **Hello! This chapter is so much fun. I'm learning a lot, especially that Portugal was the first ever country to abolish the death penalty. Cool, huh? Well, the first thing I'm going to say is that I don't support all of the views in this chapter. I'm writing from the perspective of these historical characters, and some of them do have biases that they have expressed publicly when they were alive. So, don't hate on me for Bernard being racist and anything else my mentors do. That being said, this was actually a fun chapter for me! I'll have another mentors chapter coming after this, and then we can probably go into the reapings!**

 **Next, yes, I have put the United States of America and Canada into the competition. You'll see more of why in the story, but now we have four more spots! More people can have fun with us all! Now, let's address some of the things I need.**

 **First of all, it'd be nice to get some younger tributes. I've got a couple, but I do need a lot more. They're not all 16, folks! A big thanks to those who have submitted younger tributes, and remember, age DOESN'T matter in this story! I'm not bound by canon, so a twelve-year-old can win the competition! (Within reason, of course XD)**

 **Next, it'd be nice to have some tributes who have associated with the war. Underage enlistees do happen, and there was a TON of underground rebellion in Europe during WWII. Expand on that! Make spies, saboteurs, anything! Go wild!**

 **I do not accept tributes submitted in reviews. Sorry guests! If you still want a spot, feel free to make an account and PM me with your babies!**

 **Finally, keep submitting! I've had a ton of slots filled already, and that's so great, but keep subbing! Remember my guidelines, two tributes per person, and have fun! I can't wait to see the rest of the kids I'll have to kill ;) Until next time, TheAmazingJAJ**


	4. Mentors II: We Won't Fall

**Monica Wichfeld, 48, Baltic Mentor**

I waited patiently for the German soldiers to come back into the cell, holding my bloody nose gingerly. Even though they hadn't intentionally meant to hurt me, - yet - one of the soldiers had accidentally tripped me onto the cold ground. I could see the drops of blood slowly sticking onto the cement, hardening slowly. I shivered. How long would it be before they lost their patience and more of my blood would spill onto the floors of my cell?

A scream echoed through the cells of the prison, and I turned to the door of my cell to hear a gunshot. More screams started to reverberate throughout the prison, and I listened to the weakened psyche of most of the prisoners around me collapse at the sound. It had been too soon since we had heard that shot ring out, killing our family, our compatriots, our friends. The gunshot only signaled death in our prison.

I tapped the bottom of my bed in boredom, making a rhythm to pass the time. I fell back on the bed and stared at the ceiling, just waiting… for something, anything, anything at all. "It's just… mind-numbing how spending a month in a cell can be."

"Would you like to change that, miss?" I jumped back from the voice, bumping my head on the back of the wall. I rubbed my head gingerly and looked at the person who was standing at the edge of my cell, her hair seeming to glow through the light. "God, I must be dreaming of angels or something. Who are you?"

The woman smiled, holding her hand out through the bars. "Your new agent, Mrs. Wichfeld. Are you able to leave for Berlin in the next five minutes?"

 **Lucie Vanosmael, 17, Northern European Mentor**

" _Ja!_ " I exclaimed, leaping up from my bed and walking out with the woman. She laughed and took me by the hand, leading me out of the camp. The others stared blankly at me, their pinstriped outfits blending in with the rest of the camp. It was all dull, faded, and dead. There was nothing for me here in the camp. But why would they want me to teach children to survive?

 _Careful, Lulu, you're only a child yourself. Don't get cocky._

I shook my head and kept walking, past the stained blood of the man who had slept in the bunk above mine on the corner of the hut. When he had protested against how children were being imprisoned in the camp, the guards had gotten frustrated and killed him. He had spun in such an odd way, smiling at us all strangely as he had collapsed onto the ground, his head smashing against the hut and the blood flowing out, his life flowing out of the side where the bullets had hit him. I had been one of the ones to bury him. He had suffered a better fate than others in the camp. Even the guards didn't know what would happen to them yet. We had all been imprisoned for fighting against the Third Reich. Now we were invisible, overlooked by the system and beaten every day until we were almost on the floor, senselessly trying to get back up and survive. I would likely never see them again.

I walked along with the woman to her car, climbing into the backseat. I looked incredulously at the wigs littering the back of the car, causing the woman to blush and adjust the brown wig she had on. "Oh, don't mind those. Now, let's go!"

I felt the stubble on the top of my head, feeling where my hair was starting to grow back. " _Zelfs de machtigen moeten vallen_."

They would fall. And until then, I would help my fellow countrymen. I would help them beat the rest of Europe, and laugh at Germany as the Third Reich crumbled. Not even the greatest king could outlast a revolution.

 **Fahrettin Altay, 62, Turkish Mentor**

" _Cehennem yok!_ " I spat at the face of the man, grinding the paper that he had handed me under my feet. Did he really think that I, Fahrettin Altay, would honestly agree to work with the German nation after they had bombed my beautiful nation to pieces? Why would I do such an idiotic thing?

The German officer laughed, a dangerous laugh that rang through my office. "General Altay, the Fuhrer _möchte nicht_ that response. _Bitte_ reconsiders, General Altay. If not, we'll just have to take you by force. I do not think that your wife would have liked to see you dragged by force to our nation, would she?"

I growled, standing up from my seat and walking slowly out of the building. Even though my nation of Turkey had not surrendered to the Germans yet, they walked around like it was their beautiful empire to reign. How could they just force two of our youth to fight in this competition? Why would they want someone to teach them how to fight when it was so clear that they didn't want to have Turkey win?

"Now, now, General Altay, I don't want you to be down about this!" The German officer smiled as if he had gotten the best of me, escorting me out of my office towards the dozens of armed guards, waiting for his command. I could see the bloodstains of my employees on the wall behind them. At least they had bothered to clean up the bodies.

" _Anani sikiyim,_ " I sneered at the officer as I climbed into the jeep, gingerly sitting down next to two armed men. The officer smiled and sat next to the driver. "I'm sure that you'll love our country as well, General Altay. Now, let's move. We have a schedule to keep, you know, and the _Auswahl der Namen_ is only a few days away!"

 **Henri Guisan, 68, Swiss Mentor**

I buried my head on my desk, trying to ignore the television blaring in the corner. But it was true, Germany had finally conquered Switzerland after all of the precautions that I had taken, and true enough, the Nazi flag was being risen in Bern's town hall. I watched the thousands of German soldiers march in, chanting that mesmerizing chant. " _Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil! Heil Schnee!_ "

I shook my head and turned off the television, walking out of my office and into the kitchen. Mary was there, calmly eating the meal that she had prepared for the two of us. I sighed and sat down, taking the now-cold plate of food and eating the mashed potatoes. "Bern is taken, Mary. How will our nation survive?"

" _C'est la vie,_ Henri." Mary continued to eat calmly as the rain began to fall upon our home, pelting off of the roof and onto the garden. I smiled slightly, looking at the plants that Mary had painstakingly put out almost reach out for the water falling down from the sky. In the distance, thunder rumbled, and I reached over for Mary protectively before sitting back down, ashamed of myself. The bombs had gotten to us both a bit more than we thought. Switzerland had been more easily taken than we had thought. I pitied those who lived in the mountains. They would be coming down now, thinking that their shopping day would be a normal day, but they would be questioned for days by the Germans before they were allowed to be let go. They had no idea that our nation was taken over by, by, by these _heathens._

I listened to the radio that Mary had set up start to blare out another round of German propaganda, proclaiming that even America and Canada had fallen to the might of the German empire. I stood up, reaching over the stew to turn the radio up. Mary protested, trying to keep her stew upright on our small table. "You can't do that to the table, Henri-"

I shushed her, listening to the radio. "Our honourable Fuhrer Schnee has announced a competition to test the spirit of the new acquisitions of our German Empire, where children from 14 regions, including Canada and America, who have graciously made peace with our nation, to fight to the death. Mentors from each region will teach these children to win, and the one winner will come back to his nation, that region exempt from next year's competition."

I pushed away my meal, grabbing my coat and walking out of the door. Mary grabbed my arm as I walked out, pointing at the kitchen. "Where are you going, _mein mann_? What is so urgent that you must leave at once?"

I nodded, shaking Mary's arm off of me and walking into the rain. "Switzerland needs a mentor to save them from next year's competition. I will be that mentor, my love. I will bring glory to where I have failed as a leader amongst our country. Switzerland will never have to fight again when I am finished with the two children selected. We will come home with honour at our side and pride in our hearts."

 **Josip Broz Tito, 50, Slavic Mentor**

 _They had called me their son._

I was born in a small town in Yugoslavia, my mother and father faithfully raising me among the rest of my brothers and sisters to be a good man. They were all dead now. Schnee's right-hand man, Himmler, had murdered them after I had failed to surrender to the German forces.

 _They had called me their sergeant._

I had been the youngest sergeant-major in the Yugoslavian army in WWI, at only twenty-two years of age. I had led my men into battle against the Russian army, fighting valiantly and distinguishing myself among the rest of the men. How funny it was to think that I had once fought for the German empire. Of course, that was when they were a true empire. Now they were a facade of a monarchy, ruled by a man who had found his way to power through smoke, mirrors, and poison. He deserved to be in his position no more than me.

 _They had called me their friend._

When I had joined the Communist party of Yugoslavia, I quickly made an impression amongst other men. Some admired my spirit and had me stir up agitation amongst the workers of Yugoslavia, while others spoke ill of me, behind closed doors, of course. Even in prison for my actions, I had still been relatively admired. I was a good man, after all.

 _They had called me their leader._

I had risen to power when the Germans invaded, taking control of my party and fighting against them. I had been a good leader, and I knew that the men and women I had commanded respected me. We had been close to victory. If the Germans hadn't brought out their bombs, our knowledge of the terrain would have won the day. But we hadn't, and the Germans had crushed the soul out of our country. Yugoslavia was broken.

 _The Germans had called me Judas._

The Germans had hated me for fighting against them instead of complying with the regime, killing my family and friends. They had banished me to a remote townhouse, biding their time until they figured out what to do with myself. From the look of the men escorting me out of the building, they had finally decided their punishments.

 _I had been called many names in my life. But now, the children I was chosen to save would call me their mentor._

 **Virginia Hall, 36, American Mentor**

I frowned as Cuthbert started to slow down once more, causing my leg to slow down. "Ugh, it's going to be another one of those days."

I stopped and readjusted Cuthbert, the wooden leg being put back into place under my knee. I stood up and walked into the building, looking in interest at the flag hanging at half mast. Something had definitely happened.

A secretary greeted me as I walked in, handing me a key. "It's our special guest! You're due for a meeting on the top floor, Ma'am. Your meeting is inside the room with the big door at the end; you'll definitely know which one it is from the arguing inside. Good luck!"

I nodded, patting my bad absentmindedly. The gun inside of it shook slightly, and I smiled. I was ready to go and meet whoever had summoned me here. As I walked towards the elevator, I watched the men around the hotel, dressed in dark suits and most touching a hidden pistol in their pockets. Something really was going on, and I was about to find out.

The elevator went up quickly, and I walked out of it and through the halls. I looked for the big door and saw it along with the sound of obscenities wafting into the hallway. I wrinkled my nose and walked in, watching over a dozen men arguing violently with each other, a few seeming to be ready to go to blows. One of the men saw me and left his argument, shaking my hand firmly and holding out a chair. "It's good to see you, Ms. Hill."

I nodded, watching the other men slowly stop arguing and turn towards him. The man nodded firmly, sitting down. "Ms. Hill, you may know that the United States of America has agreed to send a female and a male teenager to Europe to fight in a Competition that Fuhrer Schnee has failed to name thus far. Well, we have nominated you to be the mentor for these teenagers."

I gasped. "Me? Why me? But they all know me from my limp! How am I supposed to keep quiet and unnoticed?"

The man smiled. "That's not the point, Ms. Hill. We want them to know who you are. Even if we've made this deal with Germany, they will still know that we are a force to be reckoned with. You are America's symbol for that. The Germans will not underestimate America when we have sent the woman with the limp."

 **Richard Sorge, 47, Russian Mentor**

I smiled faintly as I was dragged out of my cell, watching the Japanese chatter excitedly to each other. They didn't care that I had been tortured by them for the past few months, brought to the brink of death and back by them. But I had held on. I would never let go to please the Japanese.

A man from the German army stepped towards me, causing me to frown. Germany wasn't in Japan, was it? Not unless they had waged war against one of their allies. It couldn't be. The man looked at me with interest, noting the gaunt lines on my face and my tired expression. I mustered a smile for him, looking at the glow that he had indicating that he was well fed. It was so long since I had a decent meal. "How are you, Mr. Sorge? Schnee would like to forgive you for your traitorous deeds against the German Empire if you come with me, back to Berlin. If you agree, then you can follow me to your transportation."

The man finished quickly, almost gasping for breath after he finished the sentence. I looked at him with concern, judging the honesty of his statement. Why would he want me to go back to the land where I had spied for the Soviet Union? Didn't they want me dead? I looked once more at him and nodded slowly. Even if they were going to kill me, it was better than torture by the Japanese. Anything was better than torture by the Japanese.

The man took my hand and walked me to the Mercedes that he had pulled up alongside the prison, with many Japanese guards looking around it and pointing at the quality of the German vehicle. I wrinkled my nose in disgust but got into it. No good member of the Soviet Union should willingly enter a Mercedes.

The Mercedes revved and went along the small road, kicking up the dust behind it. The man talked quietly to me as we went along, filling me in on what had happened when I was imprisoned. I gasped when he mentioned that Russia was mostly bombed, standing up and bumping my head on the roof of the Mercedes. "But if my country is ruined, what do you want me for?"

The man smiled, pointing out at the horizon. "You, Mr. Sorge, are going to be the mentor for the remainder of the country. When you are taken to Russia, you will take two children and try to help them to kill 26 others. Consider it… a step up from your current position."

 **I'm back and with the final mentor chapter! Hurrah, these were stressful. So glad they're over! Thanks for all the support and tributes guys, so keep subbing! Remember 2 tributes per person and my other guidelines ;)**

 **Now, what do you think of this chapter? Any interesting mentors? Any cool plot points? I have plans for them, so look forward to seeing more of these guys!**

 **Also, ALL SUBMITTERS, could you please send me all of the languages your tribute speaks in the same email you sent them in if you haven't? Thanks, I forgot to do that in the first form, so yeah, but if you can do that soon, that would be great!**

 **Ok, there's only one more chapter and then I've finally finished the prologues! Keep subbing, definitely review the story, both this and the last mentor chapter, and have fun! Until next time, TheAmazingJAJ**


	5. Control

**Hana Schnee, 38, Wife of the Fuhrer**

Hana had always enjoyed playing with dolls as a little girl. She enjoyed dressing them up and pretending they were her siblings, taking 'Adolphus', 'Rafaela' and 'Priscilla' around the house, making them do all sorts of tasks. Of course, her mother was very surprised to find Priscilla the doll's head pulled off after the two sisters had gotten into a fight over who would get a certain pink fabric to wear and Priscilla had whacked Hana on the nose, and Hana hid her dolls from the rest of the family after that particular punishment. They were _hers_ to play with, not her family's. And she certainly didn't want them to know that she _enjoyed_ controlling them, pretending that they were her siblings instead of her real ones. She loved being in charge of their fates, either taking pity or punishing them on a whim. She had played with them for years, hiding them under different floorboards in her room in order to hide the fact that she had still played with dolls. But at thirteen, she had stopped playing with her dolls. When she had turned thirteen, she had realized that playing with people was even more entertaining.

The twenty-eight children that would be chosen for the competition weren't any more dolls than her siblings had been. But she still had that control over them as she did her dolls. With enough persuasion to her husband, she could have them perform for her. The children would do what their master told them to do. And if they refused, their fate would be worse than her siblings those years ago. If they didn't perform for her, they would put their lives in her hands. She was the maker of this game, after all.

She had already decided how to occupy the children before the games. A strong protesting in Berlin and the surrounding cities caused Otto to approve two days of training for the tributes, where they would learn how to use weapons and survival skills needed to live in the arena. Personally, she thought it would be more entertaining to let them go into it with no skills whatsoever, but the protests had won them over. Otto couldn't always go against the will of the people.

But to fill the other days, she had planned a beautiful parade, where the children would dress in the traditional costumes of their people. Her friends had already started to design costumes for this _parade_ , where the children would be shown to the public. She had already started to work on the traditional Afrikkaan dress, and she had seen beautiful designs for the Turkish children. With any luck, the children could sway fashion in Berlin. The newspapers had already been approached with deals to photograph the whole parade, and it would be distributed throughout Europe along with the televised event. Hana's genius would be displayed to the world.

And after the training, the children would be taken to a ball, where they would dance the night away, meet the people, and show off their respective skills. Hana had always loved to dance, having taken classes for it when she was young. Many a night had been spent dancing the darkness away in her teens, charming the young men at the dance and becoming the talk of the town as the "girl who didn't stop dancing". It was how she had met Otto, after all. She had taken pity on him after he was rejected by a wench costumed in blue, and had decided to marry him during their third dance that night. It only took three months to convince Otto that she was his ideal wife, and they married only a week after. Yes, a ball was the perfect thing to showcase the tributes to the world.

It had been slightly difficult to find enough builders to make the perfect arena for this new sport, but Hana had managed to get her own way. They were currently finishing up the last touches, all of the stone having been arranged and built in order to make the arena aesthetic. She had chosen the vines and the flowers dotting the paths of the arena herself, leaning towards the more _tropical_ plants rather than the tough, sturdy flora of Germany and Europe. There was something mystical about those plants, something that made them brighter and more beautiful than any of the other plants that she had studied, and the beautiful flowers had been chosen to decorate the arena. They were now scattered throughout the arena, the cameras that she had helped to plant in each corner of the arena showing off their best sides. With any luck, the tributes wouldn't find the cameras or the camera crews that she had made hidden rooms and spaces for them to film the competition during their fight to the death. She wouldn't want to deal with the paperwork that would mean.

Otto had already chosen the mentors for the tributes from each country, easily deciding traitors or confidants to the Third Reich to mentor the tributes of their respective regions. The inclusion of Canada and the United States had thrown a wrench in the well-oiled plans for mentors, but both governments had chosen mentors for their tributes. They were currently on their way to Berlin, soldiers of the Third Reich guarding them in case they tried to escape from their escorts to Berlin. Otto didn't need to lose mentors again, even though he had three backups for each region. It was the hassle to find another that was the problem.

But through all of the problems, all of the controversies that were surrounding the competition, Hana and Otto were still able to strive towards the perfect competition. Every detail, every event, it was all planned to the second. Nothing could destroy the competition.

Otto could have the world. As long as Hana could have her dolls, both would be happy.

 **And that's the last pov! Wow, time has flown by! We're at a month into the story, but I've gotten all 28 tributes! Thank you so much to the 20 of you who have subbed to this little story, and, without further ado, here are all twenty-eight tributes!**

British Isles Male: Norman Bennett, 14~ CragmiteBlaster

British Isles Female: Caoimhe Bryne, 16 ~ EllaRoseEverdeen

Polish Male: Karol Karski,15 ~ Liliblossoms

Polish Female: Dahlia Kachlicka, 13 ~ Awesomewriter177

Iberian Male: Pablo Silva, 18 ~ StephenSwiss

Iberian Female: Andrea Gamper, 12 ~ AmericanPI

Afrikkaan Male: Bosede Okafor, 16 ~ CragmiteBlaster

Afrikkaan Female: Amal Issa, 17 ~ Alice Kingsleighs

Baltic Male: Johannes Stølan, 16 ~ Exotence

Baltic Female: Petra Johansson, 17 ~ IVolunteerAsAuthor

Slavic Male: Luka Novak, 18 ~ David12341

Slavic Female: Milena Kovac, 17 ~ David12341

Turkish Male: Deniz Aslan, 12 ~ MewKitCat

Turkish Female: Elif Kaya, 12 ~ finn15

Italian Male: Ignacio Russo, 18 ~ Fire and Starlight

Italian Female: Maria Bellini, 17 ~

Northern European Male: Antoine Deslauriers, 16 ~ Amy's Bones

Northern European Female: Magdalena Pichler, 18 ~ paperairline

Swiss Male: Alxavier Caspari, 16 ~ raykungfu

Swiss Female: Elia Avinkreiger, 15 ~ raykungfu

French Male: Marius Alain, 15 ~ risingballoons

French Female: Gabriella Meier, 14 ~ Mewkitcat

Russian Male: Pyotr Petrovsky, 18 ~ AmericanPI

Russian Female: Juliet Acres, 13 ~ MysticalPineForest

American Male: Beckett Walker, 16 ~ TheEngineeringGames

American Female: Elaine LaBelle, 18 ~ IVolunteerAsAuthor

Canadian Male: Keenan Atherton, 17 ~ TheEngineeringGames

Canadian Female: Abigail Kuepfer, 17 ~ MysticalPineForest

 **We've also got a blog for this wee story, which the absolutely WONDERFUL MysticalPineForest has devoted her time to creating! The link is below, and just remember to remove the spaces and the brackets ;)**

 **(https) : / / et-vici-mundum . weebly . c o m**

 **It'd be nice to see some of you do blog reviews, but if not, that's fine too ;) Enjoy this chapter, and until the first of our seven intro chapters, TheAmazingJAJ**


	6. Great British and French Intros: Family

**.oOo.**

"Everything's ruined! Everything!"

 **.oOo.**

 **Caiomhe Bryne, 16, British Isles Female**

She's been on her knees planting the last field of wheat next to her house, and if she can't get a drink of water from the well right now, the whole farm can be damned to the deepest, darkest region of Hell that she can think of. And she doesn't care if her mother would faint if she heard Caiomhe say that word. She just wants to end this cursed thirst!

Caiomhe walks into the house, ignoring the glares from her mother Eilis, currently working on the bread for their meal tonight, and Caiomhe quickly takes one of the old, painted clay cups for the water, making sure not to knock any of them off of the ledge as she turns back around to the door. The well was on the other side of the house, and if she has a chance of getting a drink of water before her father noticed and yelled at her to help finish the last few lines of wheat in the field, she has to _move_.

She's about to pour the water into the cup from the bucket that she's hauled up from the well, filled to the brim, when her sister races into the yard, the horse she's ridden on to the farm heaving for breath. Catronia jumps off of her horse and rips off the saddle, tossing it down and pulling out the newspaper that she had carried with her from the town. "Mum, Britain's surrendered."

Caiomhe drops the cup, the clay pieces shattering onto the ground as her hands tremble uncontrollably. "Wh-wha-what did you say?"

Catronia turns towards her little sister, her eyes filled with a light that both thrills and scares Caiomhe half to death. "Mr O'Sullivan says that they've burnt the Tower of London to the ground, and Mrs O'Sullivan says that they've made all of Ireland part of Britain once more."

Caiomhe's mother gasps inside of the living room, crossing herself impulsively as she stands up and runs - Caiomhe's mother never runs, not even when Collen died five years ago - to the door. " _Ó mo dhia_ , they've made Ireland a state of Britain once more? No! They can't do that! But only Northern Ireland is theirs! Only Northern Ireland is theirs! _Cad a thagann an domhan?_ "

Caiomhe is the one to notice her mother collapse, rushing to grab her shoulders before Eilis smashes her head onto the side of the doorway. "Mum? Are you alright?"

"Only Northern Ireland is theirs..." Eilis murmurs before slumping back down onto the ground, and Caoimhe grits her teeth in effort as she lifts her limp mother from the ground. "Catronia, help me!"  
Catronia helps to lift Eilis quickly up, and the two sisters carry her to the couch, positioning her into a lying position just as their father bursts in through the door. "Why is Catronia back so early from the town? Didn't you have to go get supplies for our crops?"

Aofie taps his foot as he waits for her response, not noticing his unconscious wife lying unceremoniously on the couch. It's Caiomhe who speaks up to her father, wringing her hands in fear and terror as she starts to speak. "Germany's taken Britain and Ireland and they've made us into one country once more and they're going to kill us all and they've won and we lost and, and, and… oh, everything's ruined! Everything!"

Catronia calms the trembling Caiomhe, squeezing her hand tightly. "It's not that bad. Mr. O'Sullivan's said that the Germans are leaving us alone, we're just under their rule. As long as all of us can keep our heads about this, we'll be fine, Da. Caiomhe's just lost her head a bit about this whole matter. We'll be fine, honestly. It's just… Mum's kind of fallen down."

Aofie looks over at the couch, his eyes widening in terror as he runs toward his fallen wife. "Eilis? Eilis? Are you okay? Oh, Eilis, are you hurt?"

Eilis begins to stir, her eyes opening as she looks up at the terrified face of her husband. "Aofie? But the… fields haven't been planted… yet..."

"I think she's starting to go into shock, Da. Can you get cold water and soak a towel in it, Caiomhe?" Catronia takes the hand of her mother and feels her pulse, smiling gratefully as she squeezes the palm of her mother's hand. "She's still breathing."

Caiomhe flies to the well, hauling up a bucket of water and drenching a spare towel in it as quickly as humanly possible as she races back towards the house, bursting through the doors and running towards her fallen mother. "I've got it!"

Catronia takes the towel and places it on her mother's forehead, Eilis stirring once more as she tries to resist the cold touch of the towel. Catronia holds firm the towel, making sure that Eilis can't shake it off. "She's going to be okay, Caiomhe. You don't need to think that Mum's going to die. She's going to be perfectly fine."

Caiomhe lets out a small sigh of relief, wiping the sweat that she had just noticed off of her brow. "But… but what about the Germans? What are they going to do now that they have Britain?"

Aofie comforts his crestfallen daughter, holding a shuddering Caiomhe close as he rocks her back and forth. It's something that he only did with Caiomhe when she was a small little girl and was scared of something, but Caiomhe doesn't resist, instead embracing her father as he strokes her hair. "We're going to be fine, Caiomhe. Patrick O'Sullivan can be as bad of a gossip as most of the women in the village. Why, I think he only got the job of postman by talking the first one out of town! We don't need to listen to him, Caiomhe. If I'm right, the Germans will leave us all alone. We're going to be perfectly fine. After all, why would they want us now that they've taken over? What more could they possibly desire?"

But as Aofie rocks his daughter back and forth, Caiomhe doesn't notice the uncertain look in his eyes.

 **.oOo.**

"It's always better to do something than to just stand there and do nothing."

 **.oOo.**

 **Norman Bennett, 14, British Isles Male**

Norman doesn't know what he should do with the unexploded bomb that's just fallen from the sky like a bird. The dogs are furiously barking at it, Carlisle even daring to snap at it with his jaws before backing away, whimpering slightly as he runs back to Norman. The dog has sense. He knows that this can only bring death. But will it?

Norman steps closer, the initial shock of the bomb falling in front of him, whistling through the air and crashing into the dust and grass of the forest ground, having finally faded away. It hasn't made any sounds to worry Norman - yet. Should he leave? Should he try to remove it from the forest, or should he just run?

Jarrow whimpers nervously, and Norman pats his golden head as he backs slowly away from the bomb. "Should we run, boy? Or should we stay here and try to do something about this bomb?"

Jarrow barks, almost as if he's gesturing Norman away from the bomb, but Norman stands in his position, picking up the bow and arrow that he had dropped in the falling of the bomb. The bow is still intact, and only a few arrows had spilled from the pack he had dropped on the bag. He picks them up and slowly stands up, still eying the bomb. It was a pity too, he had been close to shooting a sparrow nesting in the bushes behind the bomb. It had surely flown away in the shock; Mother Nature always knew to warn her creatures in the event of a threat. But he still wasn't sure what to about this bomb. It wasn't every day that his life was threatened like this.

"It's always better to do something than to just stand there and do nothing," Norman whispers to himself, and he snaps out of his shock. "Come on, Jarrow, Carlisle, we're leaving. We've got to tell Richmond about this."

The dogs bark in agreement and race ahead of Norman, pausing every so often in order to let him catch up with the two. Norman had always been quick on his feet, having ran around the farm since he was a small child, but he certainly wasn't as fast as the dogs. They run through the forest, dodging and weaving through the large, ancient trees in order to reach the farm. And just as Norman's starting to gasp for breath, he must have gone further than he thought from the farm, there's the golden fields filled with wheat and grain and he knows that he's safe. The bomb can't reach him here, even if it does explode.

He races through the front yard and bursts through the door, panting from his frantic sprint, Richmond opens his eyes from the nap he had been taking, and the brother leaps to his feet. "What's wrong, Norman? Did someone get hurt?"

"Bo - bomb, " Norman gasps, and Richmond leaps to his feet and runs towards the door. "Fuck, this is bad. I'm getting Bradley and Heath. We've got to find Da. He'd know what to do. Oh, if we only lived closer to town!"

Norman nods, and Richmond disappears through the door, sprinting towards the fields where Da, Bradley and Heath are busy fixing one of the broken fence posts that a tree crashed onto last night. Of course, Da would know what to do, after all. He was Grandfather's son, after all, and Grandfather had known _everything_. They would fix it all. They would fix everything. And maybe, just maybe, Norman wouldn't have to worry about it again.

He stands up and walks over to the unprepared venison on the counter, starting to chop up the meat and get it ready to cut instinctively, but the worry that he should be out helping his father and his brothers with the bomb keeps on gnawing away at the back of his mind. Should he help, or should he stay? What should he do? What was the right thing to do?

"Norman? Are you okay? Weren't you in the woods this afternoon?" Norman spins around to hear the worried voice of his sister, Caroll, and she stares at him in confusion as she walks towards the dining room. "And where are Da and the other boys going? I know Mum's gone to town, but why would they need to go into the woods?"

Norman throws the knife down onto the counter and runs towards the door, stopping as he reaches his sister. He places her hands on her shoulders and talks quickly, pointing at the window. "I've got to go help them. You stay here, Caroll. You can't come into the woods with us. Do you hear me?"

Caroll nods quickly, still confused about what's happening, and Norman doesn't waste any time in sprinting out of the house and towards the woods. He sees where he had vanished into the woods and runs there, the dogs following him excitedly. Norman stops and points back to the house sternly, watching the dogs with an authoritative eye. "Stay."

Jarrow and Carlisle whimper sadly, walking back to the house and curling up under the shade, and Norman keeps running into the woods. He needs to find them… he needs to find them… he needs to find them… he needs to _save_ them… he needs to run faster!

He bursts into a clearing and shouts to the figures of his family, screaming at the top of his lungs as he runs towards them. "Stop! Stop! Stop!"

They do stop, looking back at Norman with confused gazes before turning forwards again. And that's when the bomb chooses to explode, causing a wave of energy to fly through the air. Norman steps back, startled by the blast, and he strains forward to see his family. Are they safe? Are they hurt? _Did they die because he was too much of a coward to stop them before the bomb exploded?_

And when the dust clears, when the burning leaves tumble towards the ground, and when the sound of the explosion stops ringing in his ears, Norman can clearly see the scared, yet unharmed figures of his family. They're safe. He saved them.

And as the thought tumbles through his head, Norman collapses onto the ground.

 **.oOo.**

"How could he be so foolish, so stupid as to run into the soldier?"

 **.oOo.**

 **Marius Alain, 15, French Male**

The little girl that he's just found in the barn is wailing once more, the tears streaming down her face, and all Marius is able to do is pick her up and hide in the barn. Hide, and hope that the German soldiers don't look through the barn for him. Because if they find him, he'll be executed immediately. After all, that's what happens when a fifteen-year-old boy from the middle of France shoots a German soldier posting up the terms of surrender for Britain and Russia. They get killed as soon as possible, and if the two can't hide immediately and pray, just pray to God that they don't get found by the German soldiers, they might be able to survive this night.

The little girl whimpers as he scrambles into the hay with her in his arms, and Marius gives out a silent cry of horror as they nestle in the middle of the pile. They can't be found by the Germans, they can't! They can't! If they're found, it's all going to be over. There's no way that he'll survive if she keeps crying. But he can't smother her, that would be as inhumane as the soldiers marching closer to the barn by the second. He has to convince her to stay quiet.

"Mon ami? Bonjour?" he whispers, and the little girl turns towards him in the warm, almost smothering darkness of the hay pile. "Bonjour."

Marius breathes a sigh of relief, the girl has calmed down, and he puts his finger to his lip. "Mon petite amie, we must stay _quiet_. Do you have anything that you can think about to yourself while we hide? Do you like to do anything?"

The girl perks up, pointing through the hay to something that's in the direction that she's pointing in. "I like to play football. My brothers would be the goalies, and I would get to run with the ball, and I would score!"

Marius nods, and he remembers the happy afternoons that he had spent with his friends after school, kicking the football around the field and trying to score on his brothers. They usually didn't let goals in, Jean and Rainier were very competitive when it came to sports, but if Marius was sneaky and quiet enough, he could sometimes catch one of them off guard and score. But the happy afternoons, the springs of his life, had faded away into the smoke of the bombs that had fallen onto France, and Jean and Rainier had faded away with them. From what he was told, the two had both died during the battles of Dunkirk and the fall of France. The Germans had just _killed_ them without a second thought for their grieving mother, who was currently bedridden due to the shock of losing not one, but two of her three young sons. They weren't hateful, they were more than that. They were _despicable_. And that was why Marius had become a rebel. He couldn't bear to stay at home and mourn, so he threw away his football and traded it in for a gun. He had attended meetings under the guise of study sessions, learned how to sabotage cars with a pinch of sugar in the gas tank of the car, and how to blow up bridges with explosive putty and a rope. And it had led to this. Would he have traded his rebellion against the German Reich for freedom, for his life, for the chance to live yet another day?

No. He would never dishonour the memory of his brothers like that. Jean and Rainier wouldn't want that. He had to keep fighting, keep _living_.

The little girl sneezes, and Marius is shocked out of his memories. Horrified, he covers her mouth, but the damage is done. He can already hear the trudging of footsteps into the barn, and he bites his lip as he hears soldiers searching through the barn. They can't find them, they _can't_! He can't die, not after all of the time he had spent living!

He hears a German soldier walk towards the haystack the two are under, and Marius holds the hand of the little girl. Will the man find them? Or will they manage to survive to the end of the day?

He hears the swoosh of a pitchfork going into the hay, and before the cold, cruel metal prongs of the pitchfork stab into their flesh, Marius grabs the little girl's hand and bursts out of the hay. He can see the surprised look on the faces of the searching soldiers, and he takes the opportunity to run with the girl and out of the barn, away to freedom, away to life, away from the - Wham!

He crashes into a soldier and collapses, the little girl running a bit further before getting swooped up by a soldier walking past the barn. The man looks down at Marius, a cruel grin spreading over his odious face as he brings out his gun. "Well, well, well! _Was haben wir hier_?"

Marius spits onto the shoes of the man, the German Reich be _damned_ to hell, and he bites his tongue so hard that he draws blood. How could he be so foolish, so stupid as to run into the soldier? He could have just disappeared into the wood on the other side of the barn! But _no_ , his foolish legs had decided to carry him towards the soldiers. Jean would have laughed at him if he saw Marius in this position. A rebel should never be this stupid! He deserved to die for this. Why couldn't he _think_ before he acted?

The man slaps Marius in the face and is aiming his gun at Marius' heart just as the stern voice of what cannot be mistaken for anything other than a commander rings through the air. "Müller, _nicht schießen. lass ihn sein._ "

The man scowls and points his gun down towards the ground, still cruelly scowling at Marius. Marius shivers at the pure hatred in the glare and looks away, watching the little girl. She's being carried back to Marius, but she's screaming at the top of her lungs for her grandmother. " _Grand-mère_! _Grand-mère_! _Aidez moi_!"

The commander stares at Marius, his hands fingering the gun at the side of his belt. He speaks in broken French, watching the young rebel squirm in the hands of his soldier. "Let him… go. He can home, he go now. He will have time to die in competition."

And as Marius squirms away and runs into the forest with the little girl, he can only hear the words of the commander ringing in his ears.

 **.oOo.**

"God forbid that she makes a fool out of herself now of all times!"

 **.oOo.**

 **Gabriella Meier, 14, French Female**

She's finally decided that learning how to knit is useless when they've just found out that the German Reich had just won the war. Why would someone want to learn how to repair her stockings that she ripped last night walking home from church when her country's just been taken over by the very empire that has killed her cousins, her uncles, her friends? How could Gabriella manage to sit down and learn household skills when her life is crumbling down around her? She can't sit still, she has to move and find a place where the pieces can't hit her. She needs to go see if her parents have come home yet.

She stands up and swats away the white kitten that's been swatting at Gabriella's ball of yarn for the past five minutes. She walks past the kitchen and leans in to see her Grandmother working diligently away at the dinner for tonight. It's a beautifully prepared chicken, one of the only ones that the family has left, and it's only been killed to celebrate her brother's birthday. "I'm going to the station today, _Grandmère_."

Grandmother looks back at Gabriella, a look of pity forming behind her small glasses. "You know that they won't be back today, Gabriella. Even if that Schnee has promised to return some prisoners of war to our region for complying for the most part to the war effort, it doesn't mean it will happen today. They might not get back, sweetheart. Ooh, if I could only get a hold of that Schnee! Now that, _that_ would be a good present for Victor's birthday."  
Gabriella chokes back a burst of laughter as her Grandmother viciously carves the chicken, likely envisioning Schnee under her perfectly sharp blade. Grandmother had diligently kept track of the war effort every month of the war, planning out defense lines across Southern England and France for the Allied forces to fall back upon, deeming Paris as having no military significance and reminding the grieving family that Dunkirk only meant that the Allies were battered, not broken. It had likely hit her the hardest when the news that the Allies had surrendered and that Canada and the United States had bowed out of the war, but Grandmother was the strongest in the family. She had been the one to comfort her husband, not the other way around. It had been that strength that had let her accept that four of her children had been killed in the fighting, and that they had truly lost the war. Gabriella couldn't have possibly made it through the war without Grandmother.

She walks out of the door and into the streets, past the battered houses lining her neighbourhood. Her house is only one of the many who were affected by the bombing last year and, if she looks closely enough, she can spot broken windows in some of the abandoned houses. Those are the houses who didn't have their owners come back. Perhaps they died in the war, perhaps a squad of German soldiers found them in the streets of one of France's cities, but it makes no difference. Those houses will never be filled by their owners again.

Gabriella starts to break into a jog, only stopping once she sees others walking through the streets. She might be, in the words of her teacher, a demon who couldn't stop talking, but Grandmother had managed to drill into her head that a proper young lady always walked through town, not run. Even if her parents might be arriving on the train in minutes, she still had to walk. God forbid that she makes a fool out of herself now of all times!

Gabriella walks past the shops in the middle of the town and bites away a wave of revulsion as she sees the Nazi flag draped over the town square. The Germans had destroyed the statue of Marshal Foch in the time that they had invaded the town, and now a swastika and a statue of Schnee replaced the old war hero. It was… was… almost _sacrilegious,_ what they had done to the town. She knew that the Germans had done more than just kill the men of her town. They had taken the women as well.

She walks past the church, thankfully still intact from the German shells, and past the rest of the shops towards the train station. If she looks closely enough at the train tracks, she can see the incoming train on the edge of the horizon. Oh, if only it carries her parents as cargo, she just wants to see her beautiful mother and her strong father once more. She needs them back, especially after the end of the war. Even Grandmother can't keep them all in high spirits for long.

The ticket master smiles as Gabriella marches towards the bench and seats herself down, tossing her a hard candy. "Why the long face, _mon amie_? Your kind won the war, did they not?"

Gabriella nods sadly and starts to suck on the sweet, watching the train come closer to the station. "Grandmother and Grandfather Hermel say that it doesn't matter who wins, as long as we can live in peace. Oh, but I do hope that Mother and Father come home today. Do you think they will?"

The ticket master starts to speak but is drowned out by the sound of the large, black, train, puffing and heaving as it pulls into the station. Gabriella watches it screech to a halt and gives one last sigh, almost as if it is relieved to have finished its journey. Perhaps it is.

Gabriella watches the people file off of the train, coming onto the platform one by one. There's an old gentleman walking out of the train, and a troop of German soldiers marches out, muttering something to themselves as they walk into the town. Gabriella sighs, getting off of her feet and turning away from the station. It looks like her parents won't return today.

"Gabriella?" She turns back to see a man and a woman holding each other's arm, the woman with only one arm and clad in a nurse's uniform, and the man clad in the khaki of the French army. She stares for a second and screams in delight, running into the arms of her mother and father. They're home! They're home! Oh, nothing can hurt them now that they're all reunited. Her family is one once more.

 **Hello! Finally finished the first intros, and I'm glad to be done! Only six more to go, so tell me what you think of these tributes! Do they seem interesting? Any cool world building? Leave a review and tell me what you think! Until next time, TheAmazingJAJ**


	7. Slavic and Baltic Intros: Invasion

**.oOo.**

"But he can't admit that. The job is _this_ close to his reach, just a step away, and playing this small aspect of borders on the treaty correctly could get him higher up. And he needs to get to the top."

 **.oOo.**

 **Luka Novak, 18, Slavic Male**

He rubs his hands through his thick hair, sighing heavily and throwing down the poor, abused fountain pen that he despised so at the moment onto the hardwood floor. The pen clatters against the rubbish bin filled with dozens of crumpled up, torn papers, and Luka swears as he picks up the pen and sets it down on the counter. He needs a break, a break from all of this _useless_ treaty-making with Germany! His superior was an idiot to entrust this job to Luka. He was just as much at a loss of what to do as his bosses. But he can't admit that. The job is _this_ close to his reach, just a step away, and playing this small aspect of borders on the treaty correctly could get him higher up. And he needs to get to the top.

Erika walks into the room with a pair of her dresses still in their hangers, comparing their looks in front of herself, one after the other. "Darling, is the cerise or violet a better fit on me?"

"Don't be a dolt. Cerulean suits you much better than those nasty colours. Torch them in the fireplace, if you ask me. You look drab, superfluous in those colours." He absently fixes the glasses he has on, adjusting the large black frames before peering back at his papers. He doesn't need them, but glasses signaled intelligence; intelligence, a promotion; and a promotion meant he was closer to the top. He'd keep up that little facade if it meant he could get ahead.

Erika swats him over the head lightly with a hair comb, hauling him up and onto his feet. "We can't miss the ball, Luka. Milena's hosting it tonight, and you know how much it means to her. We have to get moving, get dressed, go! And you can't always put people down, you know. Some of us _do_ have feelings, and feelings can be easily hurt by a man with no filter."

Luka nods with fake remorse, slipping in for a kiss before Erika swats him away. "Even if you're correct, those were presents from Mama. She wouldn't want you to talk like that about presents." She turns away, pretending to ignore him.

Luka smiles, walking towards Erika and spinning her around. "My darling, you know I would ever purposely hurt you. You know why? Reason one. I love you. Reason two. I love you. Reason three. I love you."

Erika giggles and starts to soften, turning her head away from him. "It's hard to remember all of your fifteen reasons when you're never home, Luka."

"As long as you can remember one," he whispers, watching his wife smile. Erika slowly turns back to him, only to be met with a passionate kiss as Luka swoops in. Their lips touch and her lipstick is slightly smeared by the embrace. Luka kisses her again and she shrieks as they tumble onto the floor, the two dresses forgotten. She'll choose later.

They leave for the party at six o'clock, Luka carefully shutting and bolting the door shut before walking with his wife along the road. They walk quickly, the only traffic passing by the few bicycles not confiscated by the war effort and dead leaves from the autumn before. There are no cars other than military vehicles; all cars were scrapped to make tanks for the Germans. His own car, a jolly little Adler Trumpf Junior painted all in grey, had been bombed when they still lived in the city. There's a reason they now live in the country. Their house had been taken over by German soldiers, kicking the two out in order to establish another security base. At least they had no use for the country. German soldiers had no use for simple woods when they could have the cities.

They avoid the puddles dotting the side of the road, Luka laughing as he lifts his wife over a larger one while walking through it with his now-mud stained shoes. Erika chides him laughingly, getting down onto the road and pointing at his shoes. "Luka, they're a total mess!"

" _Kraljica_ , you'll outshine any shoe," he teases, flicking off some of the mud and wiping his finger on the grass. Erika stands there with her hands on her hips and pretends to be annoyed until he gets up, starting to walk once more to this ball. It's a Sham Ball, it's what everyone's dubbed these approved parties by the German Government in an attempt to distract them from the war. The war's already finished, but the Sham Balls are still severely lacking supplies due to fierce rationing in the country.

A squad of German soldiers walks by merrily, a round-nosed soldier happily chewing a bar of chocolate. Luka growls as they walk past the couple, a thin soldier accidentally splashing some mud onto Erika's cerulean dress.

" _Jebi se_ ," Luka growls at the soldiers, and one of the leading officers turned around to Luka.

" _Was hast du gesagt?_ "

"Luka, don't say anything. Walk away, darling. Please," Erika whispers, tugging at his coat sleeves.

But Luka doesn't listen.

"You think you're so smart. Get away from my wife," he hisses, spitting at the officer. The officer slowly reaches for his gun, bringing it out of his holster and slowly aiming the black, shiny barrel at Luka.

"Idiot, _ja_? Then an idiot could be excused for accidentally shooting a _Slav_ , of all things."

Erika tenses and moves towards Luka, a panicked tear trickling down her face and onto the pavement. And just as he aims right at Luka's head, a truck barrels past the group, separating them from one another and giving Erika time to grab Luka's sleeve and pull him away from the group. As they hurriedly walk away, Erika stumbling in her high heels in panic, the officer laughs cruelly and lowers his gun. "Those Slavs. More like slaves. Slaves to kill."

Erika tears up as the group walks away raunchily, pushing Luka away before hugging him tightly and weeping into his chest. "Please don't do that, Luka. You scare me when you lose control. Promise me. Promise me, Luka."

Luka sighs heavily and looks at the approaching mansion, his shoes forgotten. "I'm sorry, _kraljica_. I'm sorry for scaring you."

Erika doesn't notice that he didn't promise as they walk into the mansion. It's starting to rain.

 **.oOo.**

"But she doesn't have time to be a child tonight, does she?"

 **.oOo.**

 **Milena Kovac, 18, Slavic Female**

It's starting to rain.

She looks out of the window as the guests start to approach the mansion she's busy walking around in, sending servants to dust the countertops once more and to rearrange the little cakes that she had managed to get the servants to buy in the store; well, buy as in bribing the store owners with money from her husband, but buying was buying, no matter the manners one went around doing so. She watches the dark clouds start to converge upon the mansion, a deep rumble emitting from the nearby mountains. The guests are starting to hurry their movement, a panicked look on some of their faces as they scurry through the beautiful doors of her mansion. No one wants to be caught in the rain.

She pushes back her hair and yawns slightly, her brown eyes sparkling as she walks toward her doors. A good hostess must always be ready to greet her guests, even if she'd rather be comfortably arguing with one of them on the couch.

But she doesn't have time to be a child tonight, does she?

She starts to greet some of Koper's finest: a few bachelors in charge of several munition factories in Ljubljana, likely looking for a lovely girl to brighten up their nests, a happy couple who were likely some form of royalty in Slovenia, and dozens of women who had tried to brighten themselves up with makeup but had overdone it along with overweight men who had given up on personal fitness years ago.

Just the people she wants for this party.

She sighs under her breath before lighting up, waving like a little girl to her younger sister. Erika waves back with excitement, towing her husband along into the house. "It's raining so much! Luka, _pohiti_ into the house. I don't want to get wet! Milena, wonderful to see you tonight! How is the party?"

Milena sighs, pushing back her hair. It's stubbornly falling over her face, but she needs it to stay in the back. "The usual suspects; all of the _debeli moški in stare gospe._ At least you two are here. We need something to liven it up."

Erika laughs pleasantly and walks into the house with her wet cerulean dress, holding onto Luka's shoulder as she pulls off the jacket over her dress. "Let's go in there and see if we can't have a little fun. How is your husband?"

 _Likely near the refreshments_ , she thinks darkly, but Milena manages to keep a pleasant smile on her face for the sake of her guests. "I've sent him to chat with the others. I hope Domen decides to play nice with the bachelors. He doesn't like men who aren't fighting for the country."

" _Weren't_ fighting for the country," corrects Luka, walking into the large ballroom with Erika. "The war _is_ technically over by now. Fuhrer Schnee's won once and for all, hasn't he? _Baraba."_

Erika swats Luka lightly, blushing at the insult. "Luka, you absolutely _must_ learn to keep your mouth shut. Remember the soldiers."

"What soldiers?" Milena asks politely, opening the doors for the two. "Domen hasn't let me hear a _thing_ about the war! I'm surprised he told me that we've lost. He's got that silly little mentality about women not interfering with wartime efforts and all of his prejudices, you know the man. Now, hello to everyone!"

She grabs a glass and taps it with a spoon for attention, causing the room to pause what they're doing and look up at her. "I'm pleased to welcome you to the party! Now, the band _will_ be playing tonight, only the best for Domen!"

Domen and the men he's chatting with laugh, turning towards Milena. She resists the urge to recoil at the smell of sour alcohol and keeps smiling, tapping the glass once more. "I don't want to hold you back for too long, so we'll have the band start now!"

The small band in the corner starts to play, a balding man lovingly caressing the violin he's holding with his frayed bow. But the music is still in it, and it stands out the most of all of the instruments. Soon, the other instruments stop playing, allowing the man to start playing his symphony for the audience.

"I've always loved Bach's Chaconne." She starts with surprise as Luka stands next to her, listening quietly to the music. "Lovely piece. The man is talented."

"He is," she replies uncertainly, taking Luka's hand and starting to dance. "Where is Erika?"

"Over with a few other wives. I hear that they're talking about how mad Schnee is." Luka takes a quick sidestep and pulls Milena along with him, and she follows hesitantly. "I agree. The man is out of his mind. Who knows what he wants now?"

She shakes her head in resignment, slowly swaying from side to side with Luka. "He _is_ a strategic genius."

"And has killed half of Russia." Luka shakes his head in anger, his dark eyes flashing along with his dirty blonde hair. "I don't like the man."

"Just because the soldiers have pushed you out of the city doesn't mean that he's the worst," ventures Milena, turning alongside Luka. "I think that the war was important."

"It's still affecting us, Milena. Haven't you watched the soldiers come in? We're being _monitored_ by Schnee. He doesn't trust us. Those soldiers? His special forces, trained to become a police force for all regions. We aren't in heaven, Milena. This is a dystopia."

"Let it go, Luka."

"Not when our freedoms are on the line, Milena."

A skinny man runs to the stage with the band and jumps on top of it, grabbing a microphone from a singer and tapping it loudly for attention. Milena sighs and turns away, shaking her head as Luka watches the man. "Oh God, it's Anton Casta. Kill me now, Luka. The man never lets go of attention."

"May I have all of your attention, please!" shouts Anton, the crowd turning around to him. She notices that the man's shoes are covered with mud, and his face is rather flushed as he begins to speak. "Fuhrer Schnee has released a _very_ important announcement!"

The crowd murmurs nervously to one another, Luka pushing his way to the front. Anton breathes deeply and almost _shudders_ when he speaks again, sweat rolling down his face. Does he have a tear in the corner of his eye? "He's announced - oh, help us God - he's going to take children, _teenagers_ , from the ages of twelve to eighteen, to Berlin and have them fight to the death."

Anton gets his anticipated reaction, the crowd stirring in confusion before screaming incoherently at the news. Some draw out pictures of their children and hold them close to their chests, while some wives hug their husbands tightly. Everyone's crying. Everyone.

But all Milena can feel is her breath quickening and quickening and quickening until she collapses onto the floor.

 **.oOo.**

"Look at this girl, trying to play a woman's game. You may look the part, but you can't do anything if you aren't able to take another step."

 **.oOo.**

 **Petra Johansson, 17, Baltic Female**

It's finally to get warmer outside.

She shrugs on the coat that her mother bought last winter for her, the warm, thick down enveloping her body in heat. She doesn't mind it, hugging the coat tightly to her sides as she steps out of the door and onto the road, dimly lit by flickering street lamps dotting the sides of the road. The town still hasn't mustered enough proceeds to replace many of the lamps with fresher bulbs, instead focusing on helping those in southern Sweden still recovering from the war. Even though it's just finished, many refugees still walk through her town, looking for a place to stay after the bombs flattened half of Stockholm. They don't feel safe anymore, especially with the German soldiers patrolling the roads every night.

She barely even feels safe in her home anymore.

The path back to her house is quick, and she breaks into a brisk jog as she leaves the main road and onto the road leading to her small home. Mother and Anika will be at home right now, likely waiting for her to return. She hopes that they aren't too worried about her. She's only been gone a bit, but one never does know what might happen with the soldiers on the streets. Too many encounters, too many terrified mothers and weeping children have told their stories to the Johanssons for Petra to let her guard down for an instant.

She reaches the small house quickly, opening the dark-stained door and shouting a greeting to her family. " _Hallå_! I'm back!"

Her mother calls back to her, a note of relief in her melodic voice as she greets Petra. "I'm glad you are back, _sött barn._ Any trouble on the roads today? I wouldn't want you getting harassed by those _awful_ soldiers."

"How were the Berglunds?" Anika asks politely, putting aside the book she is reading and smiling kindly at Petra. "Brigit has been a dear about the war. Such a kind soul, able to let her husband and son both go! And her brother dead as well, the woman's a saint."

"Don't talk when other people are speaking, Anika!" her mother reproaches, scowling at the petite brunette. "Honestly, I wonder sometimes about your manners… you should be more like Petra."

Petra stifles a grin to herself as she takes off her coat, hanging it up in the small closet among the other winter clothing. She's nowhere near the well-behaved Anika in terms of manners. But Mother would never see that. She'd still be blinded by her affection for Petra to realize that Petra gets away with a lot more than Mother thinks.

A harsh knock on the door causes the family to stir, and Petra peeks through the curtains over their window to see a few German soldiers, dressed up in their smartest uniforms, impatiently waiting for the door to be opened. Oh no.

"Mother, soldiers are here," she begins, but her wide-eyed mother stops her before Petra has a chance to finish her sentence. Mrs. Johansson quickly brushes back her hair and walks calmly to the door, her face plastered in the calm smile she always sports for any social event. Only Petra and Anika would notice her hand shaking as she starts to reach for the doorknob.

Mother pauses, then opens the door quickly to let in the soldiers. "What a surprise!" she begins shakily, but the soldiers push past her and into the house.

"We have been ordered to requisition any radios, hoarded rations, bicycles, and food that we deem fit to take back to our officials. In return, you will receive a standard television kindly donated by the honourable Fuhrer Schnee, _segne den Mann_."

Mother breathes deeply, nodding towards the impatient soldiers. "Of course! We donated our radio months ago, we only have Petra's bicycle and a bit of food in the cupboards. But surely you wouldn't take our last -"

The lead soldier halts Mother in her sentence, opening the cupboard quickly and searching through the shelves. The others follow suit, taking a small chocolate bar left in the cupboard and one of their two bags of rice for requisition. Mother protests, clutching at one of the soldier's arm. "But we have little! My husband is away in Berlin, awaiting sentence for fighting in the war! Surely you can't take what little we have, can you?"

The soldier sneers at Mother, pushing her to the floor and continuing to grab pieces of silverware. "We don't bend the rules for the families of Swedish soldiers. Or should I say Baltic soldiers, considering the new countries made by Fuhrer Schnee?"

Mother bristles, getting back up and stepping away coldly. But Petra can see the fear in her eyes, the way she's breathing a little too quickly and how a small tear is rolling down her cheek. Mother is afraid.

And that means it's up to her.

She takes a deep breath and pushes her hair behind her shoulders, smiling flirtatiously and tracing the lead soldier's arm. "But _Offizier_ , we have little else, and have pledged allegiance to the great German empire! Surely you can make an allowance for us humble servants of Schnee." She bows slightly, scarcely daring to breathe as she waits for his answer. She's done about as much as she can.

The man smiles cruelly, grabbing Petra's arm and feeling for her chest. "Yes, maybe I _can_ make an allowance for pretty Baltic girls."

She jerks her arm away and slaps the officer, rage pouring through her body. "How _dare_ you! Your mother must be rolling in her grave at your manners. You _heathen_!"

The man glares in anger, pushing Petra into her mother's arms. "Look at this girl, trying to play a woman's game. You may look the part, but you can't do anything if you aren't able to take another step."

He shouts an order to his soldiers, and they nod and step out of the house, marching towards the path back to town. But before they leave, he shouts something once more to them. A younger soldier steps forward and slams the butt of his gun through the thick glass of their living-room window, the glass cracking before leaving a gaping hole in the centre. The soldiers leave in a fury, curses streaming from the lead soldier.

Her mother doesn't say a word until the soldiers are out of sight, then collapses to the floor in a bout of weeping. Anika tries to comfort her, but Mother pushes her away. "No! I will not have you disappointment comfort me. You should have stood up for your sister!"

But Petra isn't listening to her mother's tirade towards Anika. She steps towards the window in a daze, tracing the hole in the middle of the glass.

It's true. She isn't even safe in her own home.

 **.oOo.**

"There's nothing like standing in the middle of the boat and knowing that he's totally in control in where he's going to go. It's almost like he's... free."

 **.oOo.**

 **Johannes St** **ølan, 16, Baltic Male**

He loves his island.

It may be in the middle of a freezing sea, with a small amount of trees dotting the tiny island, and hundreds of other small islands with small amounts of people to visit but there's always the boats to escape to. He can always go into the sea and fish with his father, smelling the fresh, salty air and catching fresh fish in the middle of the sea. There's nothing like standing in the middle of the boat and knowing that he's totally in control in where he's going to go. It's almost like he's... free.

But you can't be free when you're sharing the same room with your oppressors. It's only the air in the small hills that he's hiding in that's made him forget about the soldiers.

He starts to walk down the green hills, his shoes squishing against the moist ground. Snow's left a month ago, but water still clogs the ground and makes the water levels at the small harbour on his island rise closer to the houses nearest to sea level. But the water never reaches the houses. The Islanders are too smart to build where water can so easily take away from them all with one wet winter.

He keeps walking, stepping onto the muddy road and walking towards the brightly painted houses. He always loved the bright green and red and yellow colours of the houses, pretending that they were kingdoms and he was a brave knight along with the three other boys around his age in the town. They were always inseparable in their first years, causing havoc and chaos among the large families of his town. But two of them are gone, Jon and Lukas both dead in the war that they lied about their ages to sign up for. He had wanted to go two years ago, but his mother and father had deemed him irreplaceable and made him work on the boats even more. He had wanted to run away back then, towards the exciting war where he thought everyone got shiny medals to show the world.

He didn't know the truth until the Germans had arrived.

They had said they were just building a fort to help finish the large Atlantic Wall, the Germans' pride and joy. But what they really wanted were eyes in the Froya Islands, soldiers to watch the villagers just in case anyone even thought of rebellion or smuggling in British soldiers. That thought is just wishful thinking now, thrown away with all of the other early hopes and dreams of the Norwegian people in the early days of the war. It isn't confirmed, but relatives have told that London's been burnt to the ground and that the King is dead.

He passes a young woman hanging her laundry out to dry, some of her younger children chasing each other around the bright blue house. She smiles fondly at the children as she continues to put up the laundry, deliberately flicking a bit of mud onto the German uniform she's hanging up onto the long clothesline. They might notice, but she can just blame it on the wind and the little children running around the house. It's one more way to reclaim her sanity when her country's conquerors are living in her house.

If only his parents could do the same.

The primly painted red house is still waiting for him as he enters his front door, the sound of a child's laughter emerging from the front room. Is that Lars playing? What's he playing with? They only have a few board games, and most of their things have been taken by the Germans as 'requisitions'.

He peeks into the room and gasps, Lars giggling along with one of the soldiers living in the house. The man is standing next to the small boy, a wide smile on his face as he crouches down to Lars. "Am I… _eine kuh_? A cow?"

Lars giggles, poking the man in the stomach and jumping in excitement. "No, Ernst! You are _not_ a cow!"

Ernst laughs in a deep voice, his face shining merrily as he tries to keep on speaking in Norwegian. "Well then, I do not know what I could be, little Lars! I have had the twenty questions pass, have I not?"

Lars nods with a wide grin, dancing in merriment as he celebrates his victory. "I win! I win! You are a horse! A horse, silly Ernst!"

Ernst laughs again, mimicking a neigh that sends Lars into convulsions. But Johannes marches in their with blazing red cheeks and yanks him away from the soldier, apologizing hastily to Ernst in broken German. "My brother, he has to do his choices. I am sorry."

He hurries Lars out of the house, a soldier sneering at him as they walk outside. But Johannes bites back a retort and moves Lars to the laundry that Mother had hung up this morning, hiding him in the billowing sheets of white and blue covers. "Don't _ever_ talk to the soldiers! Ever!"

Lars begins to whimper, his lower lip hanging down from his mouth. "But Johannes, I _like_ Ernst! He is funny!"

"I'll tell Da that you were playing in the parlour when you should have been helping put away the laundry," Johannes warns, and Lars gives in with an angry face.

"Why do you have to take everything fun away, Johannes!"

Johannes leaves quickly, running back to the hills. Lars doesn't understand at all. He's too young to realize that Germans are the _enemy_ , the ones that they should both be avoiding. He needs to get him away from them as soon as he can. Any more time spent with the Germans might end up - Oh, his mother would cry - into one himself. And Johannes is the only one who can protect him and little Anders. But then he'll be stuck here for the rest of his life.

Oh God, he hates this island.

 **I'm back! Did I surprise you with this update? It was months in the making, so you better be happy ;)))**

 **Honestly, this took so long because of my first summer job, a bit of writer's block, and rewriting the Slavic intros twice over. Not fun. But it's finally up, so let's see if I can get to Berlin by the end of November! That's a worthy goal :))**

 **I might have lost a few of you, but for those who are left, hello and please review to let me know you're here! I'm excited to get this story going again :DD especially since I finished a partial of mine and got my full SYOT to the Games! Also, submissions for my next SYOT, Hiraeth are open, so check out my profile if you're interested. Well, I've said enough already. Have fun, and enjoy the chapter! Until next time, TheAmazingJAJ**


	8. Northern Europe and Russian Intros: Fire

**.oOo.**

Mother and Father would be surprised to find out that she's taken in three German refugees while they were away. Maybe Mother and Father don't need to know.

 **.oOo.**

 **Magdalena Pichler, 18, Northern European Female**

She watches the birds fly through the air and sing for joy, the spring infusing them with happiness. They fly onto a branch and playfully dance around each other, the bright red and blue colours bringing life to the drab branch. She smiles to see the birds so happy, walking among the trees of the forest that she's escaped into. The birds continue to sing to one another before pausing, looking towards an unknown object before flying into the distance, chirping in alarm. Magdalena frowns in confusion, looking towards the source of the bird's panic before shrugging her shoulders and continuing to walk alongside the small stream. It's as clear as glass, untainted by the war that lies beyond her parent's estate. She's safe here, far away from any German who would try to take this forest for themselves. Mama and Dad paid off several officials in the German government to protect their Austrian estate from being taken over.

Magdalena enters the meadow of flowers that she comes to every spring and settles down next to a patch of edelweiss, entwining the small flowers into her long blonde hair. She giggles at the thought of her parents seeing her this way and brushes back her hair, standing up and walking towards the edge of the meadow. It slants upwards towards a large cliff, overlooking a stunning river and a large town below. If she gets to the very edge of the cliff and turns around, she can see her house beyond the forest. There are no flames here, like what her parents had whispered about in other parts of Austria, only calm waters and gorgeous forests. She's truly at home.

A rustle behind Magdalena causes her to stumble, and the girl turns around to see three bedraggled children stumble into the meadow. The oldest moves back and grabs a large stick that the youngest had been carrying, pointing it directly at Magdalena. "D-Don't come any closer, or I'll hit you!"

"Yeah, Ernst will _dich bekämpfen_!" the youngest child yells, taking a defensive stance and narrowing her eyes - which shine bright crystal blue, Magdalena notices. "Do it, Ernst!"

"Shush, Monika. Let Ernst handle this." The third child places a hand on Monika and pushes her back, frowning nervously at Magdalena. "We can't get in the way of these two."

"Do you guys need help?" Magdalena manages to stammer, pointing towards her mansion. "My parents aren't here for the day, so I could let you come there and get a few things if you need them. What _are_ you running from to make you turn up here?"

Monika opens her mouth to answer but Ernst shushes her, his brown eyes flashing. "We don't want to live in Germany anymore. Our parents were taken, so we're trying to flee to America."

"You didn't hear?" Magdalena finds herself saying, scratching the side of her neck with her long fingers. "America agreed to join the competition that Germany has started. It's only Southern America, some of Africa, and Asia that is left free, and Japan controls most of that. There's not many places to go around here, and you'll have to register for the competition next week."

Ernst's jaw drops and he lets out a pained sigh, followed by the second boy. "Are - are you kidding? Is there anywhere else to go?"

"Nowhere."

Monika starts to sob quietly, hugging her thin stomach and shaking her head. "I'm so hungry, Franz. Isn't there anything to eat?" The middle child - apparently Franz - nods and hugs her tightly, looking desperately towards Ernst.

"You could stay with me," interjects Magdalena, surprised by her boldness. Mother and Father would be surprised to find out that she's taken in three German refugees while they were away.

Maybe Mother and Father don't need to know.

The three children follow behind Magdalena obediently, and she leads them throughout the pine forest. The stream continues to burble merrily as they walk past and they soon reach the grass of the Pichler estate, Magdalena breathing in the fresh air delightedly. It's nice to be back home, especially after their winter trip to Switzerland. She can give some Swiss chocolate to the children! Yes, that's what she'll do!

Monika breaks into a run for the door as soon as they reach the open field and Ernst gasps, chasing her while Franz walks beside Magdalena. "We've taught her to find hiding places whenever she's out in the open. I guess she's remembering everything we said."

Magdalena giggles at the little girl sprinting ahead of her brother, unperturbed by the fact that the children had to hide whenever they were near enemies. "She can have one of the smaller rooms next to mine. Nobody goes in there, not even the maids because they know that Mama and Dad don't check there. She'll be safe - did you want your own room as well, or do you want to share with your brother?"

"We'll all take the room that you talked about." Franz curtly walks ahead to his siblings and Magdalena stares, wondering why they would stick that close after all of this time together. Then it dawns on her - they feel safe only when they're with each other.

The children soon reach the door and wait for Magdalena to open it, scurrying in after the blonde-haired girl. She grins at their nervousness and leads the way to her room, watching out for one of the few maids that had started their shifts at this hour. "Do you guys need anything?"

" _Nein, schlaf einfach,_ " Monika answers for them all, waving goodbye to Magdalena as she shuts the door to the hidden room. "I think Franz is hungry, though. You could get something for him!"

Magdalena nods and scratches the back of her neck, walking out to the kitchen. She can get them food, it'll help them recover from their long trek from Germany.

She doesn't admit it, but one of the reasons she's helping them is because it feels nice to be needed by others.

Is that really so wrong?

 **.oOo.**

"I know you think this is helping our family, but it will only lead to death, Antoine. I can't lose another one of you."

 **.oOo.**

 **Antoine Deslauriers, 16, Northern European Male**

He stands in line with his food card, impatiently twitching his foot and holding it out for another circle to be punched out so that he can enter the tent. The German soldier raises his eyebrow as he looks at the books in Antoine's hand, but he ignores the literature and turns back to an old woman with a little girl tugging on the woman's hand. Antoine enters the tent and grabs a piece of stale fruit, putting it onto his plate along with the small waffle grilled on the side of the tent by a tall, lanky chef. He pushes past a few thin girls gossiping with one another and leaves the tent, settling himself on the curb of the street to properly enjoy his breakfast.

"You! Get off the street! You know you're not supposed to be out here when the parade starts!" a soldier barks at Antoine in German, his lips twitching like an angry horse. "Do you want to have your meal card revoked, eh? What good would that do for you?"

Antoine snarls and backs into the tent, glaring at the man and moving towards the tent. He bumps into the soldier and darts away before the furious German has a chance to reprimand him, not daring to stop until the man out of sight. Antoine weaves his way through the crowd and sits down at the side, holding his plate and books to him protectively as he watches for any pickpockets. Only when he's moved away from a tiny boy with a hungry glint in his eyes and no meal card in his hand Antoine starts to eat, scarfing down the waffle and taking bites out of the stale apple. It's much better than anything he's had in a while, and he quickly finishes it before tucking the apple core into his pocket. He never knows if he'll get that hungry later in the future.

He moves out of the tent with his books and starts to walk in between the allyways of the city, moving towards his hiding spot. Once he reaches that loose brick in the allyway of the third street from the burnt-down bookshop, he shoves the books back into their hiding spot and replaces the brick, his eyes gleaming as he takes the wallet that he had grabbed from the angry German in the street. "Eighty marcs. Not too bad, not too bad."

He shoves the wallet back into his pants and pats it contentedly, moving out of the allyway and into the stream of people heading towards the factories being built in the distance. The Germans had decided months ago, after they had executed Leopold III. Antoine still remembers the pure shock of watching his king being shot down by the executing squad on television, standing in front of the screen so that his sisters wouldn't see. Poor Albertine, she had caught a glimpse of the fallen king and had vomited onto the upholstery, causing Mother to go into another semi-fit.

If only Albertine was still with them.

He continues to move throughout the crowd and takes a look towards the burnt down bookshop, clenching his fists until his nails leae red welts on his palms. The bookstore had been Pa's life, the one place that Antoine truly felt at home. He remembers browsing through as Pa sold books to curious customers, calling to his father whenever he found a rare signature from one of the authors of the book. Depending on the importance of the author, Pa would raise his eyebrows and grab the book from Antoine's hands, his bushy mustache raising in delight before he marked the price up another few franks.

But the Germans hadn't seen any point in keeping what they thought to be a useless waste of space, and they had burnt it down, with Pa still inside it. Pa had tried to throw out books into the streets for Antoine to bring to safety, but Antoine had only managed to grab four before the roof had collapsed over the store. They still hadn't found Pa's body in the rubble, and had no plans to yet. For all of their excitement over new space, the Germans hadn't bothered to build anything in the stead of the bookshop yet.

Antoine growls and hurries towards his home, bumping a stick of a man into a large woman as he races into his door. His mother looks up in surprise as he enters the building, putting her hands on her hips and staring the teen down. "Where have you been? Your sister said something about a stolen meal card. _Are you stealing meal cards, Antoine_?"

Antoine shrugs and throws the card onto the table, matching his mother's gaze. "I did what I had to to get money for us. Eighty marcs, Mother. Eighty marcs!"

"But you can't just steal like this!" his mother wails, almost knocking down the bowl of thin porridge that she had been stirring in her dismay. "What kind of son have I raised? I thought you were still translating for the soldiers, not stealing from them! _Le Seigneur a pitié!_ "

"They stole everything from us, Mother. Pa, Albertine, the bookshop, that's all gone. I'm taking what they owe us. I don't steal from anyone poorer than us. I'd never do that, Mother."

"Then exactly _how_ did you manage to obtain your precious meal card?" his mother spits, grabbing the porridge and setting it onto their solid-chestnut table. "Those only go to those the Germans deem loyal and poor enough to make use of it."

"Maybe someone dropped it."

"Just go back to your job. I know you think this is helping our family, but it will only lead to death, Antoine. I can't lose another one of you," Mother says, her eyes brimming with tears. "Promise me."

Antoine turns around, hurrying out of the door before Mother has a chance to call him back. They both know he can't promise that to her.

 **.oOo.**

The Germans won't stop until every last Russian is dead.

 **.oOo.**

 **Juliet Acres, 13, Russian Female**

Russia is burning.

She can see the smoke that's been churning over the air ever since the bombs fell on Russia heading towards the large, posh house she's sitting in, the dark clouds of toxic filth threatening to push away everything beautiful in the sky. And if one climbs high enough in the rooftops of St. Petersburg, they can faintly glimpse the fires raging through the countrysides from the bombs. No one's even trying to stop them from reaching her city - German soldiers parole the streets every day and shoot anyone who so as much tries to put up a barrier from the flames. She's watched it happen before - the corpse is still out there on the streets around her home, being trampled by refugees from Moscow and other cities that were bombed by the Germans. Every so often a few are shot for apparently breaking the law, their bodies slowly starting to fill the streets..

The Germans won't stop until every last Russian is dead.

She puts down the small, worn book she's reading onto the couch and moves towards the kitchen, walking through the small hallway that one must take to get to the Acres' kitchen. Mother is inside the large room, heating up some soup on their warm, cozy stove. She turns around as Juliet walks in and coughs slightly, Mother smiling in the way she always does when she has bad news for Juliet. "We don't have much in the pantry, sweetie. We'll have to starve with gruel and dry bread! It's good that Dad isn't here, he wouldn't be too chuffed about our meals." She smiles widely as she mimics the heavy accents of the Russian people, Juliet smiling thinly and nodding her head.

"Mother, when will Dad be coming back home?" she asks, her mother's face falling before she fixes a smile back onto it.

"Father will be back any week now, darling! There's no war to fight anymore, after all. What use would the Germans have for him?" Juliet doesn't observe the trembling note in her mother's voice. She nods in agreement and sits down at the counter, taking a slice of bread on the counter and buttering it with thin butter and strawberry jam from the last container of the fruity substance they have. She might as well enjoy it while she can.

"Some of the refugees have been walking past our house again, Mother. One of them tried to knock on the door, but they soon gave up and went back to the main road." Juliet doesn't mention the fact that the woman who had attempted to get help from them had a tiny, wailing baby in her thin arms. After knocking for fifteen minutes on the door, she had walked away, her starving child being held in her arms as she tried to hurry their journey to whatever form of safety they can find. She could have handed her something from the kitchen, but then she would have had to argue with Mother and get the food and try to be there before the woman left and another, more dangerous refugee tried to get in. It was easier to stay neutral. She's much safer in the shadows of her home than taking sides with the refugees on the streets.

Mother looks through the small window to the side of the stove and watches the refugees continue to march throughout the city, a stray dog weaving in and out of the crowd as it begs for food. Juliet gasps, watching the tiny animal whimper in the middle of the street. "It looks like Jack, Mother. Remember Jack?"

"Juliet, you know as well as I do that we don't have any food to spare. And even if we did, it would go to us, not anyone out on the streets. I can't afford to starve you."

Juliet nods in saddened agreement, watching the dog continue to move through the streets and towards their destination - wherever that may be. She has no idea where the refugees are planning to go, other than the fact that they just want to find a place far away enough from the bombs that had destroyed Moscow. She's lucky that the Germans decided to leave St. Petersburg alone. Maybe it was the Germanic name that caused the Germans to name this the new capital of Russia and place a proxy government in it, with poor Dad forced to work for them as a member of their army for the next few weeks. At least that's what Mother told her - but Mother is always right. "Where do you think that they're going?"

"Probably towards the border, although I don't think that Germany will allow them to go very far. After all, there are still those announcements they have to pay attention to about whatever the Germans want you children to do."

Juliet shivers, remembering the broadcast two weeks ago that she had to watch alongside Mother. Schnee's imposing figure on their new television was adorned with a deliberate smirk, his upper lip curling as he barked out his decree to all of Europe. "He said that he's going to make two children from Russia go into the Games, Mother. I don't want it to be me."

"Of course it won't be you!" her mother croons, hugging Juliet tightly and rocking her in the middle of the kitchen. "There's thousands upon thousands of other girls to take. Why would they pick you, the daughter of a Russian General from _Britain_ , of all places? The Games are for those who are dying, like the refugees. They're just going to hasten their suffering, that's what I think. It _is_ cruel, Juliet, I mince no words about that, but rest assured that _you will be safe_."

Juliet smiles and slips out of her mother's arms, walking back into the chilly living room. She takes a seat on the comfy black couch and grabs her book, curling up to read once more. She lets herself get swallowed up by the words and tries to forget about the burning world around her, letting the book wash away all of her fears. She doesn't want to pay attention to the refugees out there.

She doesn't want to know how much better she has it than the rest of them.

 **.oOo.**

"Nothing is so necessary for a young man as the company of intelligent women… bah!"

 **.oOo.**

 **Pyotr Petrovsky, 18, Russian Male**

Russia is burning.

He watches the flames engulf the St. Petersburg Conservatory, the stone building being scorched by the intense heat of the flames. Pyotr has heard that the hottest flames are bright white, and he can definitely believe that from the blinding light of the fire across the other side of St. Petersburg. His home away from home, his life, his passions, all are currently being burnt to ashes and blown away by the spring wind.

"Pyotr! Pay attention to me!" His mother takes a step towards the window which Pyotr is watching the city out of, holding up the suit in her hand. "Does this need to be hemmed tomorrow, or is it okay for the drawings next week? You'll have to look your best in case you're picked for whatever sick joke the Germans have planned for our people. Bah, heathens the lot of them, may God curse them to the confines of hell forever more."

" _Нет, это нормально,_ " he replies absently, fiddling with a loose seam on the side of his thin shirt. People are starving out in the streets that he's watching, and Mother is only concerned with this lottery to be drawn to the death for.

Perhaps that's all she can handle right now.

Mother huffs and sets down the suit, patting the tight bun that holds up her dark hair, as black as the day she was married to her husband. She doesn't have a speck of grey - Pyotr suspects that she simply wills the colour away from her thick hair. Mother would never succumb to the temptations of hair dye. "Anna is coming over tomorrow, Pyotr. You have to be on your best behaviour, and treat her like a lady, not one of your cohorts, alright?"

Pyotr slumps in his seat and gives a silent sigh, thinking of the girl who'd be coming with her twin tomorrow for a strict dinner. She's beautiful, alright, but he doesn't know how to feel about her, especially when her twin is the one who catches his attention more than Anna's raven-black curls.

He doesn't even know what to feel about himself.

Mother coughs loudly and Pyotr straightens his back in anticipation, waiting for yet another tirade about his posture. "Pyotr, you simply have to sit like a gentleman! You act like a chair is just another way for you to demonstrate your creative abilities. Ha, next you'll forgo the chairs and just sit on the floor like an animal! _Да поможет нам Бог,_ " she mutters, turning her back and leaving the room. As she exits through the doorway, she pauses and turns back to the pale boy, her face softening slightly. "Perhaps you could lead the twins through a little composing exercise, or even play for them yourself. You know how Anna loves your music, Pyotr."

Pyotr nods, remembering her sweet smile whenever he sits down at the large piano in the living room and lets himself truly play. When he does, he doesn't pay attention to his audience until it's over, throwing himself into the music and letting him live through the highs, the lows, and the triumphs of the piece.

There's no war in music, only perfect symphony.

Mother finally leaves the room and Pyotr stands up, picking up his copy of _War and Peace_ and flipping to a random page. He always enjoys looking through the book. A well-written novel flows like a piece of music. He reads the quote his finger lands on, his voice wavering as he softly says it out loud. "Nothing is so necessary for a young man as the company of intelligent women… bah!"

He places the novel on the small table next to the window and walks out in disgust, messing up his dark brown hair as he mutters angry curses to himself that he's learnt from several other students at the observatory, many of them creative enough to disguise them as witty insults. God's always out to get him a wife these days, not anything else, even if that's not what Pyotr desires. Then again, he's supposed to be damned to hell. Maybe it's the Lord's way of trying to lift him out of the depths of the furnace.

But Pyotr can't take that help. Not when he's so damaged in the eyes of that cruel God up in the heavens, who likely thinks it's funny to curse people with yearnings that they aren't allowed to pursue and then punish them if they do. How could Pyotr be helped by such a person? How could he be saved by them?

He walks towards into the hallway where the Petrovsky family bedrooms are located and turns towards the living room, flinching as he hears a gunshot from outside. It's unlikely, but there's always the fear that it's one of the people he loves. He can't lose any of them. He wouldn't be able to live if he lost Mother, or Father, or even one of the twins. He's grown attached to both Anton and Anna, even if he struggles against Mother's attempts to match him with Anna.

Mother calls from the other side of the house to him, her voice containing a note of what Pyotr identifies as nervousness. "Don't look out of the window, Pyotr. I don't want you to draw the attention of anyone out there, especially a German soldier. You know what they did to my sister."

Pyotr remembers last week when his aunt came stumbling into the house with dishevelled garments and babbling about how she had been touched by Germans, yanked into an ally… and thrown out when they were finished with her. No, he won't draw the attention of any Germans out in the streets. It's better to stay inside. It's better to stay out of sight. And out of sight of the Germans and the world he will stay, safe in these shadows, the tiny rooms that are as small as a closet.

Even if it means that he won't be able to let anyone see the real him.

 **Pyotr needs theology of the body lol**

 **Anyways, another chapter! Technically in less than two months! Score! And I think it's pretty good, and hopefully you do to! Leave a review so that I know who's still here, and I hope you enjoyed this fun little chapter. Only five more intros to go! Yay! I'm hoping to get another one out in November, but we know what happened the last time I said that XD let's hope for the end of the year!**

 **Until then, TheAmazingJAJ**


	9. Swiss and Polish Intros: Deceit

He'll be more careful next time.

 **.oOo.**

 **Karol Karski, 15, Polish Male**

He dips the brush into the large paint bucket, the lime-green paint splashing onto the cobblestones of the alley way as he lifts the brush towards the wall and brushes against the faded-red bricks. The paint drips as he makes the large P of the rebels, adding the whale tail-shaped bottom so that it truly resembles a kotwica.

He giggles and shoves the top of the paint can back on top of the bucket, shoving the brush into the bucket and rubbing off any drops of paint that had landed on the covering of the bucket. After all, he has to make it seem like a milk can. It's the only way he can get it past the Germans.

An old lady grumbles as he shoves past her and enters the street, joining the growing thong of Poles who enter the town to find food and work. After all, the Germans have promised food to those who will help rebuild the city after the bombs fell, and the hungriest are willing to work for anything, even if it is under the hands of their captors.

His dark blonde hair falls over his eyes as he walks through the streets and he struggles to push it back under his cap, catching a stray lock as it droops downwards and firmly setting it in his place. His pale skin, so white and ghoulish, shines in the light and catches his dull green eyes, which gleam in the sun - or maybe it's the feeling of pride in his heart. He always feels this way whenever he does something to help Poland. It's the feeling of doing something bigger than himself.

As he exits the street and heads towards the residential area of Warsaw, an angry German soldier moves through the crowd and towards the alley way. Quickly and surely, Karol watches him enter the alley and curse in German, a nasty, ugly word that Karol wishes he didn't know. The soldier barks something to another soldier in the crowd and grabs a young man, holding a pistol to his forehead and yelling so rapidly in German that Karol can't translate it in his panic. Karol pushes away and walks through the crowd, humming loudly and trying to ignore the sound that is sure to come.

But he still hears the gunshot. And the screams.

Running now, he moves through the crowd and towards home, away from the Germans. He mutters curses under his breath and blinks away a few tears, but his heart reminds him of what's just happened. He knows the risks of demonstrating against the Germans, he knows the risks of sabotage, he knows that the Germans have a penchant to direct their anger towards random civilians, it's just that the thrill of the moment makes him forget it all.

That is, until the Germans take revenge.

He'll be more careful next time.

His breathing calms as he hurries through the streets and into a less crowded part of the city. It's a part with children running through the streets with their friends, laughing without fear. Here, old women stoop in the doorways with their own cronies, gossiping about the nerve of the housewives on the other side of the street to let their laundry so blatantly hang in the windows or whatever trivial issue they've found to talk about. He feels safer here. After all, it's his home.

His father waves from the stairwell as Karol heads towards their apartment building, leaning against the loose frame of the doorway as he waits for his son to get closer. "Mother's left… on business." Karol nods and waits for his father to start walking back up the stairs, both unwilling to say with so many others around them that Mother has left on rebel business.

They reach the fourth floor and head into the apartment, Father waving to Gertrude Nowak in the kitchen. Ever since other cities in Poland had been bombed, an influx of refugees and a rapid sectioning off of the city by Germans had caused families to seek hospitality in other households. Gertrude was one of them, and the Karski's had gladly welcomed the dignified woman into their house, who disappeared often in the daytime and spoke little to the Karski's. She didn't listen to them, and they didn't listen to her, so they were both happy with their arrangements in this welcoming deal. After all, it could have been much worse. The Wojcik's on the other end of the hallway had to take in _two_ families.

Gertrude, almost as if she senses that Father wants to talk to Karol, disappears into her bedroom and shuts the door, and Father breathes a sigh of relief before leaning against the wooden counter. "I have to go later tonight to another part of Poland. There's an old train bridge over the Vistula that the Germans plan to take a supplies train over, and a few of our forces have found explosives to leave under the tracks. If all goes well, we'll have a lovely little article in the newspaper by the next morning." Karl nods, his face lighting up in the thought that they'll waste supplies for the Germans. They've been transporting a lot of slate and stone as of late: materials that the Germans have asked for help to the eager people of Warsaw. After all, work means food to put on the table, and there wasn't much of that in Warsaw to begin with. If he's right, he would see many young men travel to Germany to start working later in the month.

But he doesn't plan to be one of them. He'll stay here, where Father has a steady-paying job and Mother keeps up the pretense that she's an ordinary housewife. He's happy here.

"But, you'll be here with Gertrude because of that. Mother phoned earlier saying that she won't be here as well tonight." Karol's face looks away with a slight sigh, a sulky expression taking over his face. It's not that he _doesn't_ like Gertrude, it's just that she's often picky and quick-spoken, leaving Karol to feel like he's been insulted more often than not. No, he'd rather have Mother and Father here instead.

"I'm okay with that." Karol nods to Father despite his doubts, putting away the doubts in a small crevice in his mind where he won't think of them. After all, Mother and Father do so much. He shouldn't do anything to disappoint them. "Could I go to the cinema later this afternoon?"

Father breaks into a grin, pointing towards the cupboard under the kitchen sink. "I've got just what you need."

 **.oOo.**

She's heading home. Or at least where home should be.

 **.oOo.**

 **Dahlia Kachlika, 13, Polish Female**

She watches the movie-goers flood out of the cinema doors with shrieks of disgust, a wave of smoke and stench trailing behind them. A few German soldiers run in to inspect the damage, but they're forced to retreat by the sheer power of the smell inside. Not even the mighty Germans can stand a stink bomb.

She notes the likely perpetrator of the bomb in the crowd, his face alight with mischief with a smile that lets his pale face glow. His dark, dirty-blonde hair is loose from under his cap, and he fails to notice it as he pushes through the crowd and away from the cinema with exaggerated cries of disgust. _Clever boy_. He knows how to deflect the blame away from himself.

Not that _she_ doesn't know a thing or two about that.

She walks up to the German soldiers with a worried look on her face, pointing down the street to where the crowd is headed. "I saw the person who set off this bomb! Please, could you catch him? He must be _very_ dangerous. It would do me great pleasure to help you catch him."

" _Ja, was können wir für Sie tun?_ " the German soldier asks, and Dahlia nods in affirmation. She has little idea of what he's said, but she'll try her best to answer anyway. Bluffing usually works in her favour, and soldiers like to hear appearances and the direction that their foe is headed. It's what she's learned from the other times she's tried this trick.

"He had long, dirty blonde hair, and he had a cap on. I think he was wearing orange clothes." It was more of a reddish-yellow look, but that doesn't matter to her. A little confusion goes a long way. "He went down that way!" She points to the right side of the crossroads, the opposite way of where the boy has went. She doesn't want him to be caught, after all, only to get her prize. That's all that matters. She's given enough information to the officers that if they catch him, they'll know she was telling the truth, and if they don't, then it isn't her fault. She's done her job well.

The German soldiers nod and toss her a few coins, hurrying towards where Dahlia's directed them to. She grins and snatches the coins up, running through the streets with her prize. It's a few _złoty_ , enough to buy her a loaf of bread - and some butter to go with it. Oh, she can _feast_ tonight!

She offers a quick thanks to the God up above - perhaps he isn't listening to her right now, but it never hurts to get on the good side of her creator - and heads through the streets, squeezing through a pair of old women and towards the ruins of Warsaw.

She's heading home.

Or at least where home should be.

She squeals and dodges a cart of apples as a vendor heads through the crowd, Dahlia snatching one of the falling apples before it hits the ground and running off into the crowd. The vendor yells at her and tries to turn his cart around, but urchins attacking the cart for food cause him to curse in anger and head towards the market. The best thing he can do now is just try to get as much of it as he can to the markets of Warsaw, over in the city square, before he loses it all to the hungry children.

After all, there's been more and more of those since the war ended.

She shakes her head and sits down on a bench near one of the bakeries in this area that she's claimed for herself, eating the apple quickly and without hesitation. She takes large, rounded bites out of the apple before throwing away the core, the seeds of the apple falling out and into cracks in the street. They'll never grow to be the apple tree from which they came. Warsaw is too cruel for that.

She sits back and watches life mill around her, the inhabitants of Warsaw quickly moving towards their destinations. There's the old woman with the funny limp and a grim smile on her face moving through the crowd, a light-red shawl draped over her shoulders as she lugs a basket of bread back to her flat. And then Dahlia sees the fat man with golden hair, whose belly jiggles in the tight, frayed grey suit that he's worn for the past five days in a row. Her eyes follow the man as he disappears around the corner, bumping into a young girl with a patchwork blue-and-white dress and green eyes. She smiles in apology to him before passing Dahlia, her eyes looking straight ahead.

She doesn't want to acknowledge a homeless person.

Dahlia shrugs and leans back on the bench. She's used to it all. No one acknowledges the orphans, the homeless, those who are in a worse place than they are. After all, it could give them bad luck. No one wants to be on the streets.

 _Does_ she mind living like this? Not really. She's free out here, with everything she could want and desire right now. When her expectations have been so drastically lowered, it's easy to please herself. But when it's cold at night and the wind bites into the scarf that she found near one of the bakeries and her thin jacket almost falls into pieces, she wishes that her home hadn't been bombed to the ground last year. She remembers the warmth of her mother's touch - was her hair red? A shade of auburn? - and her father gruffly reminding her to take the dog out for a walk - or was it to take the dog to the bathroom? She doesn't remember anymore - but she remembers the way the sirens began to wail and bombs lit up the night. She thought she would never make it then. But she's still here now. She'll continue to survive. It's what she'll always do.  
No matter what.

 **.oOo.**

Sometimes, the soldiers talk of cities like Berlin, large, gleaming cities where the streets are always clean and there are jobs for all. She wants to be in a city. But first, she has to figure out how to get there.

 **.oOo.**

 **Yvonne Müller, 16, Swiss Female**

The Germans chat in the lounge and Yvonne watches them from the stairs up to the Müller's own apartment, shyly waving back to one of the friendlier ones. She smiles and starts to walk towards them, her white-blonde hair shining in the light and from the hundreds of times she's dragged a comb through her unruly locks, attempting to keep them straight and neat.

But then _Noah_ of all people bumps into her before she has a chance to introduce herself, nearly knocking her over with the tray of jam and toast he has in his hand. She bites back a retort and clenches her teeth, smiling thinly towards the soldiers before turning back up to the stairs, Noah in hand. "What _are_ you doing, brother dearest?"

"Ma and Papa asked me to help clean up breakfast!" little Noah says innocently, his large blue eyes almost enough to calm Yvonne down. "Why were you going towards the soldiers? You know that Ma doesn't want you to associate with them. You should just stay upstairs or help in the barn, like they said you should."

Almost.

"Why aren't _you_ doing what you're supposed to?" Yvonne sneers, steering the conversation away from the fact that she's not supposed to be talking with the soldiers, or even looking at them. Mother and Father are too paranoid for their own good. "You're supposed to be helping them, right? Then you better go back to the kitchen and start working on the dishes. You shouldn't be out here if you're going to help. How are Mom and Dad ever going to trust you with anything if you don't help?"

Her brother's face crumbles, then lightens up again as he remembers what he was doing. "But -"

"No, no, go back to the kitchen before I tell Mom. Do you _want_ to lose your privileges or not, little brother?"

Noah slowly shakes his head and heads back to the kitchen, where Yvonne contentedly listens to her mother berating Noah for going to the wrong place. It might be _mean_ of her to have gotten him confused, but it keeps her safe. She doesn't need to get in trouble. Not when so much is going on already. She'd rather keep her freedom to move around the large home and listen to everything that's going on, and plot her way out of this piece of land that will take her nowhere. Sometimes, the soldiers talk of cities like Berlin, large, gleaming cities where the streets are always clean and there are jobs for all.

She wants to be in a city.

But first, she has to figure out how to get there.

She walks back up the stairs and into the Müller's living room, picking up a book and flipping through the pages with a bored gaze. It's a travel guide that she snuck upstairs from the magazine collection near the check-in counter, and she likes to look at the different places whenever she feels down. It inspires her to go further, to aim for bigger and better things than work here for the rest of her life. But she doesn't feel down right now, she feels _bored_ , a much more dangerous emotion than melancholy.

Perhaps sneaking outside and taking a walk will help her boredom. After all, the longer she vanishes for, the more likely that Noah gets to do her chores in the barn.

She likes that idea.

She grabs her boots and walks out the back way, stepping down the stairs at the back of the house and walking around the side to step onto the road. It's solid and thick, a sure sign that spring is almost over and summer is on it's way. Her parents don't like the idea of summer this year: that Schnee fellow's promise to take children to fight to the death worry them, but she wants it to come all the sooner. It means that she won't be stuck indoors for much longer, and Switzerland is only truly beautiful to her in the summer.

Well, there is the winter skiing. But that's the only thing that makes winter enjoyable.

She smiles and hurries towards the town nearby, hoping to get close to the soldiers and listen to them. Ever since the Germans have occupied the town, she's been closely listening to the language, picking up the terms and learning it slowly. Slowly, but surely. She's sure if she had been given the chance this morning, she would have been able to talk to the soldiers about their home, or at least attempt to. Maybe if she meets one of the higher-ups, she can find a way to leave, to get out of this town. She wants to visit the cities! The cities!

A gunshot nearby causes her to jump in fright, and she lands nimbly on her feet as she glances to the side of the road, blissfully unaware of the puddle that she's almost stepped into. A German soldier is yelling at one of the villagers, the frightened man holding onto a cap and a bag as the German points a gun at his face. The German curses - she doesn't know if it's cursing, but the tone of voice that the German uses sounds like it - and strikes the man across the face, a bruise swelling instantly and leaving a splash of crimson and indigo on the cheek. The man cringes and breathes heavily as the German shoots into the air in fury, grabbing the bag from the man and walking away stiffly as the man closes his eyes and cries in relief.

She gasps, turning away and trying to stop her knees from shaking as the German walks back onto the road, a bag of goods in his gloved hand and a stern look on his face. She doesn't dare breathe until he walks past, taking well over a minute for her breathing to return to normal.

She takes a step forward, her mental state shaken. Maybe she doesn't need to go to Germany.

 _Splash!_

She glances down in disgust at her soggy shoes, the loafers now muddy and uncomfortable.

Oh, she definitely does.

 **.oOo.**

No one had the foresight to see what it would become. Their heads were stuck in the past, lingering over memories long ago.

 **.oOo.**

 **Nino Altherr, 16, Swiss Male**

He grabs the camera from his brown-leather bag and puts the strap over his head, the silver, German issued Leica I camera gleaming in the light of the city. A small smile plays on his lips before he walks into the throng of salesmen and women trying to make as much as they can today. Two years ago, this market wouldn't have even been thought of by anyone who walked through the crisp, clean square of Bern. Some of the older citizens may remember murmurs about the old _Christoffelturm_ being torn down, remember their parents telling stories about how the inner city of Bern used to look like, but no one had the foresight to see what it would become. Their heads were stuck in the past, lingering over memories long ago.

No one could blame them, really. After all, the German army wasn't something that anyone would like to think about in the city of Bern.

He snaps a small picture of a woman offering an array of fruits to newcomers in this market, a few soldiers stopping to chat with her. She's fairly attractive, Nino notes, but he also sees the silver wedding ring on her hand as she blushes and tries to tell the soldiers to go away without offending them. God help anyone who'd offend one of the German soldiers, the self-proclaimed 'saviours' of Switzerland.

Eh, as long as Nino keeps his head down and doesn't talk to anyone, he'll be fine. Not interacting with them means that he won't have a chance to provoke them. Besides, he's never minded keeping to himself. It's nice to not talk to others. He feels safer this way. After all, who would mind a boy with just a small camera in his hands, especially if he isn't aiming it at them?

He keeps taking photographs, making sure to not take pictures of anyone who looks directly his way. He's learnt from experience that people don't like to be caught off guard by him, so he usually sticks to the birds congregating around church steeples and the wares of the markets. He's not a religious man, but he does like the way the birds fly around the churches. It feels different. It feels grand, not like some of the gawdy buildings on the outskirts of Bern. No, the inner city is from a different era, an era that's withstood the test of time and is all the better for it. It's the most beautiful place on the planet - at least to Nino. He's never seen even Italy, after all, which has been highly praised by his parents for lush, rolling hills and valleys. Who knows what other cities in Europe may be like?

His brown hair is blown back by a sudden breeze, and he tucks the small camera back into his bag before turning to run back to his house. The Germans always seem to come in and search for dissenters and potential rebels just before dinner, and he makes sure to leave an hour before in case he gets caught up in their questioning. His parents, the public marvels that they are, would never forgive him for returning home after a short questioning - especially if it's as bad as they've told him about. Nino doubts it, but he's heard rumours that they torture those who don't cooperate. It's just believable enough to cause doubt, but he's never paid attention to that rumour spread by old housewives in the city. After all, wouldn't he had heard about it from those who were questioned?

As he enters the apartment, he's greeted by his mother applying a fresh coat of lipstick and adjusting her royal-purple dress, the hem a modest few inches below the knee. She gives a small grin as Nino walks in and ruffles his hair, her painted smile all the brighter. "How was your walk, honey? I hope you have a few more photos to show us. It's always wonderful to see your little scrapbook."

Nino gives her a small smile back, patting the small bag hanging against the side of his hip. "I have a few. Bern is beautiful, as always. Will we stay here for a while?"

"Your father would like to leave for the mountains before summer fully comes, but the truth of the matter is that the government is forcing us to stay here. Apparently this region of Switzerland is being chosen for the male position in the competition Schnee speaks about, and no one who's lived here for more than six weeks is allowed to leave it except if they have explicit permission. They denied us."

"Oh."

"I know it might sound scary, but nothing's going to happen. Schnee is just blustering, his bark worse than his bite." His mother rubs his hair once more, giving him a hug. "You're growing so big, Nino! I'm surprised how tall you are. You'll soon be every bit the man your father is."

Nino laughs, thinking of his six foot, three inch father with the stature of an athlete and a black mustache that he meticulously grooms. "I don't think I could be quite as assertive as Father, Momma."

"But you're just fine that way, Nino." His mother gives him a quick kiss on the cheek before grabbing a coat and shrugging it over her shoulders, her lithe frame enveloped by the black coat. "Now, I must hurry to the office. I may be starring in a smaller movie if I play my cards right! Isn't that exciting, especially after _Liebling Edelweiss_?"

He smiles and waves goodbye to his mother as she exits the door, closing the door carefully and picking up his bag, focusing on the lights gleaming on the city below his home.

His camera, his mind, only captures the beauty of Bern.

And it's just fine that way.

 **Our regularly scheduled two month update is here again! XP I have reasons this time for this, mainly because the Swiss Male and Female needed to be replaced and it took a bit to get them both, but the lovely BulletproofReed and willemsbakedgoods submitted those two! So a round of applause to them :D I'm excited to get more into this story, especially now that we're over halfway through! 4/7 intros, y'all!**

 **Anyways, tell me what you think of this! I already have started on the next intro, so I'm determined to get to Berlin soon. We are going to do it, guys! We're going to finish this story, no matter how long it takes! Cheer me on in the reviews, because I want so badly to finish this up :D Until next time, TheAmazingJAJ**


	10. Turkish and Afrikkaan Intros: Trapped

**.oOo.**

They may not understand the need to travel away from this trap of a desert, to find a place full of life. But she does.

 **.oOo.**

 **Elif Kaya, 12, Turkish Female**

She sits on her bed and opens the book once more, letting herself fall into the wonder of this world where boys and girls wander the forest freely. She wishes she could see a forest once, the imagery in the novel paints a picture in Elif's brain of lush, mossy-carpeted forests with trees that stretch up to the heavens and dark, large leaves that shield the forest from the bright sun. She loves the thought of this cool, breezy paradise - so far removed from her own city.

But most in Turkey are content with what they have for now. They like the desert and the busy streets, full of people and places and animals that bray at those who get too close to them. That's probably why she never likes to talk about it to others - they may not understand the need to travel away from this trap of a desert, to find a place full of life.

But she does.

She shivers as she sees a German soldier walking through the busy streets outside and pulls up the scarf of her hijab, letting only her eyes show through the scarf as she moves further away from the window. Even up in the second floor, she doesn't feel safe from all of the people down there. She just wants to be left alone by the Germans, yet she wants to run outside and never look back. She hasn't been out of the house for weeks.

She's tired of staying indoors all of the time.

"Elif? Come down here, there is news." Elif hears the voice of her father and walks obediently towards the doorway, walking down the narrow set of stairs and sitting down to watch the television blare in the living room. She waits as her male cousins come in to sit down on the couch then moves to the other one, where she watches the leader of Germany and his wife bark orders to a group of politicians. "There is a Turkish translator for us, so you don't have to try to decipher it."

Elif nods and sits down onto the uncomfortable sofa, waiting for the Turkish translator to explain what was happening on the screen. She doesn't talk, rather waiting for the man to explain what was going on in the television so recently installed by the German soldiers that had taken over Turkey. They were everywhere lately, from the shops to the hospital where her father had to get checked-in for a bout of flu to the schools where her cousins learned. She didn't go out into the city often, even before the Germans had come.

And now?

Now she almost has no opportunity to leave.

The television continues to blare the harsh voice of the German leader, his eyebrows knitting themselves together in anger as he continues to talk to the other men on the screen. Elif can't help but feel frightened by his voice, how loud he is and the intensity of his actions. She doesn't understand German and the translator has made no move to begin yet, but she can tell that he's describing something bad. Maybe not for himself, but for the world.

Then the calm voice of the translator begins to overtake the harsh tone of the Fuhrer, and her cousins begin to murmur about what he's saying. Not too loudly, however. They're too curious about what the leader is announcing to drown out the television with their own noise.

"I, the grand leader of Germany and its new empire, announced a new system to track all of his citizens, extending from the far reaches of the Baltic region to the sands of Turkey and Afrika. From now on, all citizens must attend a yearly meeting, held in their town square. There, they will register their names and their families, before the citizens aged twelve to eighteen will be taken into the square. Two from every region of the empire will be chosen through lottery to be taken to the capital of our empire, the fair Berlin. There, these children will be presented to the world before fighting in honourable combat, the survivor winning their region supplies and funding that will make them stronger! Together, these children will be the spirit of our empire. The meeting is mandatory - whoever does not join the congregation of people on the scheduled day, unless gravely ill, will be taken into custody by the guards stationed to your town and jailed for an indefinite amount of time. I hope to see perfect attendance rates in every town and city throughout the empire."

The translator cleared their throat and stopped talking, Otto Schnee continuing to speak to the politicians. When the screen faded to black, the translator began to talk once more. "As you know, every registered citizen in the empire now has a television set, thanks to the efforts of our empire. The competition between the regions will be broadcast to every one of these sets, so that all can witness the combat. Viewing will be mandatory, and there will be civil holidays throughout the competition so that all can view as they please. This has been a broadcast from your leader, Otto Schnee. Please hurry to your town hall to register for the competition, or you may be fined depending on your competency and financial state at this time."

The screen cut to static and the other couch erupted, all of Elif's cousins arguing over the ethics of this announcement.

"They can't do that! They can't!"

"Will they take only men, or will the girls be taken as well?"

"I won't go," one of the cousins said before another hit him on the arm. "Why should I when they can't track us all?"

"There are state records for a reason, idiot." Another cousin rolled his eyes. "If you don't show, I bet they'll shoot you. If not, then you'll rot away in prison for an indefinite amount of time."

"You mean for life." The oldest cousin glared at the screen, his arms crossed over his chest. "We can't do anything, can we? We just have to follow whatever they choose, or they'll shoot us. They did it to our army when we tried to resist them, and the pigs have no morals to stop them from doing the same to us, or women, or children."

They don't notice Elif walk away from the couch and back up the stairs, trembling like a sun-scorched leaf on the trees that sprout around their block. She's terrified, but she won't let it show to them.

She doesn't allow herself to cry until she closes the door.

 **.oOo.**

It may be foolish, but it's the right thing to do.

 **.oOo.**

 **Deniz Aslan, 12, Turkish Male**

He's in the middle of class when the soldiers first arrive, knocking on the door firmly before the teacher hurries to unlock it. They haven't come to the school before, but there have been rumours of doors being broken down if the occupants are too slow to respond.

Deniz looks up from his math work and puts it back in his desk, folding his hands neatly on the middle of the seat so and sitting up straight. The others at his desk do the same, and soon the entire class is silent and wary. They're watching the soldiers.

The first soldier asks a question in German to the teacher, which he responds to quickly. Annoyed by the teacher's clumsy German, he chooses a man behind him and drags him out between the teacher and himself. Deniz realizes that the man will act as the translator between the teacher and the officer, and settles back into his seat to listen to the conversation. He'd like to help the teacher up, who looks terrified at this point, but he knows what could happen if he does so. Right now, he should stay in his seat. Doing anything else would be foolish.

The officer asks something in German to the haggard man he chose from the group of soldiers, and the man translates it for the benefit of the teacher. "Are you equipped with the new books given out by the Ministry of Information? We have to make sure that you're teaching the correct curriculum to the students."

"We… we haven't received them yet. The post office is slow… we rarely get anything on time. I've been giving articles to the children to learn about the war you have won..." the teacher responds, and it occurs to Deniz that he's forgotten his teacher's name. The man arrived the other day after their original teacher was summoned to another part of the region, and began teaching his class math and grammar while he waited for another placement. He'll be transferred as well soon, to another classroom or school in the city to teach another group of wide-eyed children. That is, if he isn't summoned to military service under the German forces. Too many fathers of the children in the class have already been summoned to service in the past few months.

The translator tells in German what the teacher has said to his commanding officer.

The officer scoffs.

The teacher cringes.

"Have you made any efforts to get these books faster?" the translator asks in heavily-accented Turkish to the teacher. He looks nervous for the teacher's sake, and the officer behind him grunts in annoyance.

Deniz winces.

"I have just arrived yesterday - I am a substitute for the teacher who will be taking my spot in a few weeks. I have not had a chance to get these books, I barely knew that we were supposed to get them. I am sorry. I will speak to the principal about this, and we will get them as soon as we are able while teaching these children to the best of our ability. That is all that I can do."

The translator murmurs this to the officer, and the man steps forward and looks the teacher in the eyes.

Then he slaps the teacher in the face.

Deniz's teacher falls onto the floor, where he lies in a heap of fear and cowardice. He's sprawled there on the floor for a few moments, catching his breath and trying not to fall apart completely in front of the officers, before Deniz rushes forward and helps the man up.

It may be foolish, but it's the right thing to do.

The officer looks down in contempt at Deniz, and Deniz suddenly feels ashamed of his short stature. He's like a dwarf compared to this tall man in black leather shoes and a crisp uniform that seem to scoff at Deniz. He brushes aside his curly dark hair and nods to the officer, then steps away. He stands there for a few moments to make sure that the officer does not want him to remain there, then scurries back to his seat, back to anonymity.

The officer turns away from the class - he's deemed them too young to even speak to - then barks a few more sentences to the translator. The man nods and tells the teacher what he must do. "You'll be telling the children what is in the papers for the rest of the lesson, as long as they are German-sanctioned papers. Do not pull any tricks, or we will find out. We'll be returning in a few days with the books that you need to continue classes. Unless, of course, you leave and your substitute will take up teaching this class."

The teacher nods and talks a bit more in clumsy German, reaching out his hand in a brave attempt to say goodbye to the soldiers.

The officer does not take his hand. Instead, he shakes his head and walks out of the classroom. The other soldiers follow him, but one stays behind to rip down the posters of Turkish leaders and throw them in the rubbish bin. Then they disappear into the hallway, and the sound of boots marching in unison fades away as they enter another classroom.

The class seems to let out one singular breath of relief, their shoulders sagging back down to their normal postures and a few scratching itches they didn't dare touch while the soldiers were in the classroom before starting on their work once more. The teacher stands by the chalkboard at the front of the room, but says nothing to the class. He looks like he's trying not to cry.

Deniz decides to lose himself in his thoughts instead of finishing his math work. After all, he's only a few problems away from finishing, and the teacher looks too scared to finish the class. Instead, he'll think of the bakery back at home and his father, who will be working to sell all of their fares to the customers around the city. Soon, Deniz will be home to help as well, making sure that their pies and buns look appetizing enough to buy, before eating supper in the candlelight with his family and heading to bed.

He'll be home soon.

 **.oOo.**

Bosede will decide when he finally dies.

 **.oOo.**

 **Bosede Okafor, 16, Afrikkaan Male**

 _The ten times that Bosede Okafor has murdered:_

i.

Bosede is only five years old and is playing in the kitchen while his mother begins to dry the laundry outdoors. His father is away on military duty, as he has been for most of Bosede's life, and the boy has no one to watch him as he decides to climb onto a counter and look through the cupboards for something to eat.

To Bosede's surprise, a large rat is sitting in the middle of the cupboard and eating the stale carton of crackers Bosede has been looking for. It seems as surprised to see Bosede as Bosede is to see that his snack has been eaten, and attempts to scurry away before Bosede grabs it by the tail and slams it into the counter, stepping on it with his heel for good measure.

When his mother comes in with an empty laundry basket and sees the dead rodent, she heads to the store with Bosede and buys a few mousetraps. Bosede gets a small caramel to suck on, and he smiles as they walk back to their small home.

Life is good.

ii.

"Kill it!"

"Kill it!"

"Someone get the dog!"

Bosede walks around the corner to see a group of boys cheering on a cat as it holds a bird in its jaws, jumping down from the tree that it had caught the bird in and walking - no, prancing - away from a snarling dog.

Bosede's eyes narrow. He loves birds, and can't stand the looks on the faces of the people around the cat. He charges in with a yell and kicks them all away from the cat, before stomping on the cat until it lets go of the bird.

Then, he keeps kicking the cat until it stops moving.

iii.

Bosede's life changes when the war arrives.

He had heard rumours about what the Germans had done to other countries in Africa, how they had used terrible bombs to destroy the capital cities of the more developed nations who had stood a chance against Germany's massive military, but he didn't understand the full depth of the situation until his father brought him to become a soldier.

It had been a calm day, a clear day where there was not even a hint of the cloud in the sky when his father arrived home. Ignoring the embrace of his wife, he headed straight for Bosede and walked him out of the hut. "Today, my son, is the day you become a man."

Bosede nods in confusion and walks after his father, stopping to give his mother a quick hug before continuing on. They walk for hours, and Bosede thinks that his legs may fall off when they reach the makeshift hut that his father walks into. Bosede follows him, and his eyes widen as he sees the array of weapons scattered on the floor. Guns, grenades, knives, it's the most he's ever seen in one place.

A few more men walk in and grab guns from the floor, stuffing rounds of ammunition into their pants before walking back out. Bosede grabs one at his father's command, and the man shows Bosede how to load it before escorting him to a tall tree. "Climb up there, and wait until you see a German uniform. Shoot when they're in range."

Bosede is about to ask what a German uniform looks like, but his father quickly leaves in the direction of the other men in his unit. In the distance, he can hear bombs falling.

When a German finally does walk his way, Bosede recognizes him instantly. He's white and is muttering a harsh dialect to himself, one that Bosede doesn't understand. That's when he shoots, the first shot missing before Bosede fires three more in succession. He's always been a good shot, and the man crumples into the ground like a paper doll with red wine for blood. It seeps into the dust of the battleground, and Bosede looks away out of respect.

He feels a tinge of satisfaction for having done his job, but it's just a small tinge.

Just a tinge.

iv.

He doesn't remember what happens after the first man dies, but he does remember seeing the second body slump onto the first.

v.

Bosede works with his father's unit for many weeks, but never kills. The Germans are gone for now, wary of the guerilla units roaming around the outskirts of Ghana's largest cities. But when they do arrive, Bosede finds himself trapped with his father behind a wall of sandbags in the middle of the city.

"Run, boy! Get to a house, something, anything!" Bosede nods and darts out from behind the sandbags, the enemy soldiers distracted by Bosede's father firing at them with the gun that he didn't give Bosede. Then they toss grenades at his father, and they hit the ground with a horrible thud before causing the ground to erupt in smoke.

When Bosede realizes that the body of his father is gone, he's shot a man in the heart and is reloading.

vi.

Another gunshot causes a second man to fall to the ground, and the ringing in the soldier's ears clear just as Bosede shoots a third bullet.

vii.

When the third man dies, the Germans realize that they have to take the boy seriously. One fires and misses, and Bosede aims for a man who's loading his rifle before dodging behind a building and pulling pins out of the grenades that his father gave him.

viii.

The first hits a soldier square in the chest, and he tries to kick it away before it goes off and destroys his face.

ix.

The others land under the feet of a second soldier, and he's distracted by Bosede disappearing from sight before they explode. Bosede doesn't look back, not when he's shot in the back, not when a grenade scorches his shirt and peppers his legs with shrapnel.

But he does look back when he finds a place to reload.

x.

He was told that he had killed over a dozen more in the battle and his escape into the heart of his city, but he can't recall any of their deaths. It's all a red haze in his mind, mingling with his first murders and blurring into an indistinct face. He doesn't even feel guilty - the disconnect from the victims is great enough for Bosede to disregard what he's done, although those close to him would say that he has always been too calm around death.

Perhaps it's better that way. At least he won't get hurt.

Bosede will decide when he finally dies.

 **.oOo.**

She'll be home soon. Then, she can do what she wants.

 **.oOo.**

 **Amal Issa, 17, Afrikkaan Female**

She should be home soon.

That's what Amal always tells herself when she's out with her father during one of his gambling nights. Right now, she is waiting at the side of this room for him to finish up with his game and bring her back home. Her father is sitting at a large table with three other men in their late forties and early fifties. The men are playing cards and drinking alcohol, entirely too much for Amal's father to be of use to her when they walk back home tonight. But by this point, an extra person with her will do wonders for her safety.

She usually likes to wander the streets alone - when she was younger, Amal was notorious for disappearing for days at a time before showing back up in her bed, hair askew and body covered with dirt - but the war's changed that all. Everyone is expected to walk with someone else if they want to be safe at nights, regardless of size, age, or gender. They can never be too sure of when they're safe to be alone, so they never are.

Her father slams his hand onto the table and laughs at the faces of the others around him. "You all wish you could be as lucky as I am tonight. Praise be, I will be walking home with all of your wages!"

"If you don't trigger a German landmine with all of the money weighing down your pockets!" The man beside Amal's father chortles, and the others join in. They're at the very least tipsy and at the worst hopelessly drunk, but they're having a good time and Amal doesn't mind listening to them as she finishes some work that she has to finish for school. She's one of the lucky people who are allowed to attend the local college, no small feat considering the attitude against women in her city.

When people on the street and at the college tell her that her place in the home, Amal laughs at them. Her father spends too much time in the homes of others for her to bother taking care of their house, and she's not planning on marrying. Not yet, anyway.

A German officer passes by the window of the home, and all of the men freeze until the man walks out of sight. He doesn't notice them, but Amal still shudders as she continues to write out her plans for an essay she must turn into her professor next week. Algeria has been under the reign of France for a century, and the people are so accustomed to the ways of France that it was a shock to have it ripped away with the end of the war, replaced by the Germans.

There had always been whispers of rebellion among the people, but never too serious. After all, France had been slowly letting go of Algeria throughout the years, allowing it to become more independent over time. It was a nasty surprise for one European country being replaced with another, one that was more watchful and sent out more soldiers to watch them in their very homes.  
Amal doubts that all of the soldiers that patrol the streets of the city are German; there are entirely too many of them to be all from Germany when there were dozens of other countries to watch. But it doesn't stop the people from stopping in their tracks when they see the uniform, and it doesn't stop Amal from referring to them all as German. Sometimes she slaps on the word scum behind the word German, but only behind closed doors. It's likely too risky to do otherwise.

Amal doesn't take chances.

As the men resume and finish up the game, her father scoops up his prizes and grins at the other men. "Amal, are you proud of my winnings?"

"If you didn't waste all of that money with weak hands, I might be." Amal laughs at her father and returns to her studies, the other men breaking into laughter. Her father grins as well, knowing that Amal is fine with however much money he gambles away. As long as they can have a roof over their heads for to study under and dinner on the table for them both to eat, the Issas are content with their lifestyle. Why want what they don't need to have?

"Amal is a woman of her own," her father brags to the other men at the table. "She is studying at the local college, and may be getting a degree in a year or so. Not bad for a girl who's supposed to stay in her home her whole life!"

The other men murmur in admiration and clean up the cards, taking a few more swigs of alcohol as they do so. Amal's father never gambles with the strictest Muslims or religious people in the area. They'd disapprove of the wasted money and intoxication that comes with it. That's why these are the men he spends nights with - they don't bother much with religion, and will always be down for a night of good fun. They don't mention what they do in their free time to people outside of their social circle, and no one asks them in return. No one feels the need to probe any further than small talk about the weather and the war.

Amal's father slips on a jacket and Amal stands, putting her work in a bag and tightening up her clothes to protect herself from guarded eyes and the cold night. She can never be too safe.  
Father waves to the men, a grin plastered on his face. "Sleep well! I'm sure your shoulders will be light tonight, with all of the money you've lost." He's always happy after a good night of gambling. Even when it's a bad night, Amal's father still walks home with a smile. He is a happy drunk.

Then they walk out the door and into the road, Amal closing the door behind her father. She falls into line and keeps rhythm with his unsteady gait, helping him up when he stumbles and keeping her head low. She's tired, but she has plans to study tonight and can't do so until her father is tucked into bed.

She'll be home soon. Then, she can do what she wants.

 **BET Y'ALL DIDN'T EXPECT THIS TO COME BACK**

 **But yep, I'm back! After being swamped by Gr. 11 and an insanely busy summer, I managed to lose control of my updating schedule and stopped updating this story for almost a year. I'm sure I've chased most of you away because of the wait, but I promise sticking around is worth it - in order to make sure this doesn't happen again, I stockpiled almost 30K words, from the remaining intros to the bloodbath. I'll be updating this every week or so, and I hope that a few of you choose to take this journey with me! I'm very excited to share this with you, and I hope the three or four of you feel the same way.**

 **Otherwise, that's pretty much it. You have nine pre-written chapters to look forward to, and I'm already into the arena - yep, I'm that ahead :o - so this should update relatively quickly. Thank you to the few who are sticking it out for the long haul, you're the reason I keep updating this. I love you all.**

 **Enjoy the chapter. Until we reach Iberia and Italy, TheAmazingJAJ.**


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